"Government Goat"

by Susan Glaspell

　　When he couldn't any longer stand the wails of the Cadaras, Joe movedfrom his bedroom to the lounge in the sitting-room. But the lounge inthe sitting-room, beside making his neck go in a way no neck wants togo, brought him too close to Ignace Silva's rejoicings in not havingbeen in one of the dories that turned over when the schoonerLillie-Bennie was caught in the squall last Tuesday afternoon andunable to gather all her men back from the dories before the seagathered them. Joe Cadara was in a boat that hadn't made it—hence thewails to the left of the Doanes, for Joe Cadara left a wife and fourchildren and they had plenty of friends who could cry, too. But IgnaceSilva—more's the pity, for at two o'clock in the morning you like towish the person who is keeping you awake was dead—got back to thevessel. So to-night his friends were there with bottles, for when a manmight be dead certainly the least you can do is to take notice of himby getting him drunk.

　　People weren't sleeping in Cape's End that night. Those who were neithermourning nor rejoicing were being kept awake by mourners or rejoicers.All the vile, diluted whisky that could be bought on the quiet was inuse for the deadening or the heightening of emotion. Joe Doane foundhimself wishing he had a drink. He'd like to stop thinking about deadfishermen—and hearing live ones. Everybody had been all strung up fortwo days ever since word came from Boston that the Lillie-Bennie wasone of the boats "caught."

　　They didn't know until the Lillie-Bennie came in that afternoon justhow many of her men she was bringing back with her. They were all out onLong Wharf to watch her come in and to see who would come ashore—andwho wouldn't. Women were there, and lots of children. Some of these setsof a woman and children went away with a man, holding on to him andlaughing, or perhaps looking foolish to think they had ever supposed hecould be dead. Others went away as they had come—maybe very still,maybe crying. There were old men who came away carrying things that hadbelonged to sons who weren't coming ashore. It was all a good deal likea movie—only it didn't rest you.

　　So he needed sleep, he petulantly told things as he rubbed the back ofhis neck, wondered why lounges were made like that, and turned over. Butinstead of sleeping, he thought about Joe Cadara. They were friendlythoughts he had about Joe Cadara; much more friendly than the thoughtshe was having about Ignace Silva. For one thing, Joe wasn't making anynoise. Even when he was alive, Joe had made little noise. He always hadhis job on a vessel; he'd come up the Front street in his oilskins, turnin at his little red house, come out after a while and hoe in his gardenor patch his wood-shed, sit out on the wharf and listen to what IgnaceSilva and other loud-mouthed Portuguese had to say—back to his littlered house. He—well, he was a good deal like the sea. It came in, itwent out. On Joe Cadara's last trip in, Joe Doane met him just as he wasstarting out. "Well, Joe," says Joe Doane, "off again?" "Off again,"said Joe Cadara, and that was about all there seemed to be to it. Hecould see him going down the street—short, stocky, slow, dumb. Bydumb he meant—oh, dumb like the sea was dumb—just going on doing it.And now—

　　All of a sudden he couldn't stand Ignace Silva. "Hell!" roared JoeDoane from the window, "don't you know a man's dead?" In an instantthe only thing you could hear was the sea. In—Out-Then he went back to his bedroom. "I'm not sleeping either," said hiswife—the way people are quick to make it plain they're as bad off asthe next one.

　　At first it seemed to be still at the Cadaras. The children had gone tosleep—so had the friends. Only one sound now where there had been manybefore. And that seemed to come out of the sea. You got it after a wavebroke—as it was dying out. In that little let-up between an in, an out,you knew that Mrs. Cadara had not gone to sleep, you knew that Mrs.Cadara was crying because Joe Cadara was dead in the sea.

　　So Joe Doane and his wife Mary lay there and listened to Annie Cadaracrying for her husband, Joe Cadara.

　　Finally Mrs. Doane raised on her pillow and sighed. "Well, I suppose shewonders what she'll do now—those four children."

　　He could see Joe Cadara's back going down the Front street—broad, slow,dumb. "And I suppose," he said, as if speaking for something that hadperhaps never spoken for itself, "that she feels bad because she'llnever see him again."

　　"Why, of course she does," said his wife impatiently, as if he hadcontradicted something she had said.

　　But after usurping his thought she went right back to her own. "I don'tsee how she will get along. I suppose we'll have to help them some."

　　Joe Doane lay there still. He couldn't help anybody much—more was thepity. He had his own three children—and you could be a Doane withouthaving money to help with—though some people didn't get that throughtheir heads. Things used to be different with the Doanes. When thetide's in and you awake at three in the morning it all gets a good deallike the sea—at least with Joe Doane it did now. His grandfather,Ebenezer Doane, the whaling captain—In—Out—Silas Doane—a fleet ofvessels off the Grand Banks—In—Out—All the Doanes. They had helpedmake the Cape, but—In—Out—Suddenly Joe laughed.

　　"What are you laughing at?" demanded his wife.

　　"I was just laughing," said Joe, "to think what those old Doanes wouldsay if they could see us.""Well, it's not anything to laugh at," said Mrs. Doane.

　　"Why, I think it is," good-humoredly insisted her husband, "it's such ajoke on them."

　　"If it's a joke," said Mrs. Doane firmly, "it's not on them."

　　He wasn't sure just who the joke was on. He lay thinking about it. Atthree in the morning, when you can't sleep and the tide's in, you mightget it mixed—who the joke was on.

　　But, no, the joke was on them, that they'd had their long slow deepIn—Out—their whaling and their fleets, and that what came afterwas him—a tinkerer with other men's boats, a ship's carpenter who'deven work on houses. "Get Joe Doane to do it for you." And glad enoughwas Joe Doane to do it. And a Portagee livin' to either side of him!

　　He laughed. "You've got a funny idea of what's a joke," his wife saidindignantly.

　　That seemed to be so. Things he saw as jokes weren't jokes to anybodyelse. Maybe that was why he sometimes seemed to be all by himself. Hewas beginning to get lost in an In—Out. Faintly he could hear Mrs.Cadara crying—Joe Cadara was in the sea, and faintly he heard his wifesaying, "I suppose Agnes Cadara could wear Myrtie's shoes, only—the waythings are, seems Myrtie's got to wear out her own shoes."

　　Next day when he came home at noon—he was at work then helping Ed.Davis put a new coat on Still's store—he found his two boys—the boyswere younger than Myrtie—pressed against the picket fence thatseparated Doanes from Cadaras.

　　"What those kids up to?" he asked his wife, while he washed up fordinner.

　　"Oh, they just want to see," she answered, speaking into the oven.

　　"See what?" he demanded; but this Mrs. Doane regarded as either tooobvious or too difficult to answer, so he went to the door and called,"Joe! Edgar!"

　　"What you kids rubberin' at?" he demanded.

　　Young Joe dug with his toe. "The Cadaras have got a lot of company,"said he."They're crying!" triumphantly announced the younger and more truthfulEdgar.

　　"Well, suppose they are? They got a right to cry in their own house,ain't they? Let the Cadaras be. Find some fun at home."

　　The boys didn't seem to think this funny, nor did Mrs. Doane, but thefather was chuckling to himself as they sat down to their bakedflounder.

　　But to let the Cadaras be and find some fun at home became harder andharder to do. The Lillie-Bennie had lost her men in early Summer andthe town was as full of Summer folk as the harbor was of whiting. Therehad never been a great deal for Summer folk to do in Cape's End, and sothe Disaster was no disaster to the Summer's entertainment. In otherwords, Summer folk called upon the Cadaras. The young Doanes spent muchof their time against the picket fence; sometimes young Cadaras wouldcome out and graciously enlighten them. "A woman she brought my mother ablack dress." Or, "A lady and two little boys came in automobile andbrought me kiddie-car and white pants." One day Joe Doane came home fromwork and found his youngest child crying because Tony Cadara wouldn'tlend him the kiddie-car. This was a reversal of things; heretoforeCadaras had cried for the belongings of the Doanes. Joe laughed aboutit, and told Edgar to cheer up, and maybe he'd have a kiddie-car himselfsome day—and meanwhile he had a pa.

　　Agnes Cadara and Myrtie Doane were about of an age. They were in thesame class in high school. One day when Joe Doane was pulling in hisdory after being out doing some repairs on the Lillie-Bennie he saw abeautiful young lady standing on the Cadaras' bulkhead. Her back was tohim, but you were sure she was beautiful. She had the look of some onefrom away, but not like the usual run of Summer folk. Myrtie wasstanding looking over at this distinguished person.

　　"Who's that?" Joe asked of her.

　　"Why," said Myrtie, in an awed whisper, "it's Agnes Cadara—in hermourning."

　　Until she turned around, he wouldn't believe it. "Well," said he toMyrtie, "it's a pity more women haven't got something to mourn about."

　　"Yes," breathed Myrtie, "isn't she wonderful?"

　　Agnes's mourning had been given her by young Mrs. MacCrea who lived upon the hill and was herself just finishing mourning. It seemed Mrs.MacCrea and Agnes were built a good deal alike—though you never wouldhave suspected it before Agnes began to mourn. Mrs. MacCrea was from NewYork, and these clothes had been made by a woman Mrs. MacCrea called byher first name. Well, maybe she was a woman you'd call by her firstname, but she certainly did have a way of making you look as if youweren't native to the place you were born in. Before Agnes Cadara hadanything to mourn about she was simply "one of those good-lookingPortuguese girls." There were too many of them in Cape's End to getexcited about any of them. One day he heard some women on the beachtalking about how these clothes had "found" Agnes—as if she had beenlost.

　　Mrs. MacCrea showed Agnes how to do her hair in a way that went with herclothes. One noon when Joe got home early because it rained and hecouldn't paint, when he went up-stairs he saw Myrtie trying to do thisto her hair. Well, it just couldn't be done to Myrtie's hair. Myrtiedidn't have hair you could do what you pleased with. She was all red inthe face with trying, and being upset because she couldn't do it. He hadto laugh—and that didn't help things a bit. So he said:

　　"Never mind, Myrtie, we can't all go into mourning."

　　"Well, I don't care," said Myrtie, sniffling, "it's not fair."

　　He had to laugh again and as she didn't see what there was to laugh at,he had to try to console again. "Never mind, Myrt," said he, "you've gotone thing Agnes Cadara's not got."

　　"I'd like to know what," said Myrtie, jerking at her hair.

　　He waited; funny she didn't think of it herself. "Why—a father," saidhe.

　　"Oh," said Myrtie—the way you do when you don't know what to say. Andthen, "Well,——"Again he waited—then laughed; waited again, then turned away.

　　Somebody gave Mrs. Cadara a fireless cooker. Mrs. Doane had no firelesscooker. So she had to stand all day over her hot stove—and this shespoke of often. "My supper's in the fireless cooker," Mrs. Cadara wouldsay, and stay out in the cool yard, weeding her flowerbed bed. "Itcertainly would be nice to have one of those fireless cookers," Mrs.Doane would say, as she put a meal on the table and wiped her brow withher apron.

　　"Well, why don't you kill your husband?" Joe Doane would retort. "Now,if only you didn't have a husband—you could have a fireless cooker."

　　Jovially he would put the question, "Which would you rather have, ahusband or a fireless cooker?" He would argue it out—and he wouldsometimes get them all to laughing, only the argument was never a verylong one. One day it occurred to him that the debates were short becausethe others didn't hold up their end. He was talking for the firelesscooker—if it was going to be a real debate, they ought to speak up forthe husband. But there seemed to be so much less to be said for ahusband than there was for a fireless cooker. This struck him as reallyquite funny, but it seemed it was a joke he had to enjoy by himself.Sometimes when he came home pretty tired—for you could get as tired atodd jobs as at jobs that weren't odd—and heard all about what theCadaras were that night to eat out of their fireless cooker, he wouldwish that some one else would do the joking. It was kind of tiresomedoing it all by yourself—and kind of lonesome.

　　One morning he woke up feeling particularly rested and lively. He wasgoing out to work on the Lillie-Bennie, and he always felt in betterspirits when he was working on a boat.

　　It was a cool, fresh, sunny morning. He began a song—he had a way ofmaking up songs. It was, "I'd rather be alive than dead." He didn'tthink of any more lines, so while he was getting into his clothes hekept singing this one, to a tune which became more and more stirring. Hewent over to the window by the looking-glass. From this window youlooked over to the Cadaras. And then he saw that from the Cadaras a newarrival looked at him.

　　He stared. Then loud and long he laughed. He threw up the window andcalled, "Hello, there!"

　　The new arrival made no reply, unless a slight droop of the head couldbe called a reply.

　　"Well, you cap the climax!" called Joe Doane.

　　Young Doanes had discovered the addition to the Cadara family and camerunning out of the house.

　　"Pa!" Edgar called up to him, "the Cadaras have got a Goat!"

　　"Well, do you know," said his father, "I kind of suspected that was agoat."

　　Young Cadaras came out of the house to let young Doanes know just whattheir privileges were to be with the goat—and what they weren't. Theycould walk around and look at her; they were not to lead her by herrope.

　　"There's no hope now," said Joe, darkly shaking his head. "No man in hissenses would buck up against a goat."

　　The little Doanes wouldn't come in and eat their breakfast. They'drather stay out and walk round the goat.

　　"I think it's too bad," their mother sighed, "the kiddie-car and theball-suit and the sail-boat were enough for the children tobear—without this goat. It seems our children haven't got any of thethings the Cadaras have got."

　　"Except—" said Joe, and waited for some one to fill it in. But no onedid, so he filled it in with a laugh—a rather short laugh.

　　"Look out they don't put you in the fireless cooker!" he called to thegoat as he went off to work.

　　But he wasn't joking when he came home at noon. He turned in at thefront gate and the goat blocked his passage. The Cadaras had beenwilling to let the goat call upon the Doanes and graze while calling."Get out of my way!" called Joe Doane in a surly way not like Joe Doane.

　　"Pa!" said young Joe in an awed whisper, "it's a government goat."

　　"What do I care if it is?" retorted his father. "Damn the governmentgoat!"Every one fell back, as when blasphemy—as when treason—have beenuttered. These Portuguese kids looking at him like that—as if theywere part of the government and he outside. He was so mad that he bawledat Tony Cadara, "To hell with your government goat!"

　　From her side of the fence, Mrs. Cadara called, "Tony, you bring thegoat right home," as one who calls her child—and her goat—away fromevil.

　　"And keep her there!" finished Joe Doane.

　　The Doanes ate their meal in stricken silence. Finally Doane burst out,"What's the matter with you all? Such a fuss about the orderin' off of agoat."

　　"It's a government goat," lisped Edgar.

　　"It's a government goat," repeated his wife in a tense voice.

　　"What do you mean—government goat? There's no such animal."

　　But it seemed there was, the Cadaras had, not only the goat, but a bookabout the goat. The book was from the government. The government hadraised the goat and had singled the Cadaras out as a family upon whom agovernment goat should be conferred. The Cadaras held her in trust forthe government. Meanwhile they drank her milk.

　　"Tony Cadara said, if I'd dig clams for him this afternoon he'd let mehelp milk her to-night," said young Joe.

　　This was too much. "Ain't you kids got no spine? Kowtowing to themPortuguese because a few folks that's sorry for them have made thempresents. They're ginnies. You're Doanes."

　　"I want a goat!" wailed Edgar. His father got up from the table.

　　"The children are all right," said his wife, in her patient voice thatmade you impatient. "It's natural for them to want a few of the thingsthey see other children having."

　　He'd get away! As he went through the shed he saw his line and pickedit up. He'd go out on the breakwater—maybe he'd get some fish, at leasthave some peace.

　　The breakwater wasn't very far down the beach from his house. He usedto go out there every once in a while. Every once in a while he had afeeling he had to get by himself. It was half a mile long and of bigrocks that had big gaps. You had to do some climbing—you could imagineyou were in the mountains—and that made you feel far off and different.Only when the tide came in, the sea filled the gaps—then you had to"watch your step."

　　He went way out and turned his back on the town and fished. He wasn't tofinish the work on the Lillie-Bennie. They said that morning theythought they'd have to send down the Cape for an "expert." So he wouldprobably go to work at the new cold storage—working with a lot ofPortagee laborers. He wondered why things were this way with him. Theyseemed to have just happened so. When you should have had some money itdidn't come natural to do the things of people who have no money. Themoney went out of the "Bank" fishing about three years before his fathersold his vessels. During those last three years Captain Silas Doane hadspent all the money he had to keep things going, refusing to believethat the way of handling fish had changed and that the fishing betweenCape's End and the Grand Banks would no longer be what it had been. Whenhe sold he kept one vessel, and the next Winter she went ashore rightacross there on the northeast arm of the Cape. Joe Doane was aboard herthat night. Myrtie was a baby then. It was of little Myrtie he thoughtwhen it seemed the vessel would pound herself to pieces before theycould get off. He couldn't be lost! He had to live and work so hislittle girl could have everything she wanted—After that the Doanes werewithout a vessel—and Doanes without a vessel were fish out of sea. Theyhad never been folks to work on another man's boat. He supposed he hadnever started any big new thing because it had always seemed he was justfilling in between trips. A good many years had slipped by and he wasstill just putting in time. And it began to look as if there wasn'tgoing to be another trip.

　　Suddenly he had to laugh. Some joke on Joe Cadara! He could see himgoing down the Front street—broad, slow, dumb. Why, Joe Cadarathought his family needed him. He thought they got along because hemade those trips. But had Joe Cadara ever been able to give his wife afireless cooker? Had the government presented a goat to the Cadaras whenJoe was there? Joe Doane sat out on the breakwater and laughed at thejoke on Joe Cadara. When Agnes Cadara was a little girl she would run tomeet her father when he came in from a trip. Joe Doane used to like tosee the dash she made. But Agnes was just tickled to death with hermourning!

　　He sat there a long time—sat there until he didn't know whether it wasa joke or not. But he got two haddock and more whiting than he wanted tocarry home. So he felt better. A man sometimes needed to get off byhimself.

　　As he was turning in at home he saw Ignace Silva about to start out on atrip with Captain Gorspie. Silva thought he had to go. But Silva hadbeen saved—and had his wife a fireless cooker? Suddenly Joe Doanecalled.

　　"Hey! Silva! You're the government goat!"

　　The way Doane laughed made Silva know this was a joke; not having a jokeof his own he just turned this one around and sent it back. "Governmentgoat yourself!"

　　"Shouldn't wonder," returned Joe jovially.

　　He had every Doane laughing at supper that night. "Bear up! Bear up!True, you've got a father instead of a goat—but we've all got ourcross! We all have our cross to bear!"

　　"Say!" said he after supper, "every woman, every kid, puts on a hat, andup we go to see if Ed. Smith might happen to have a soda."

　　As they were starting out, he peered over at the Cadaras in mocksurprise. "Why, what's the matter with that goat? That goat don't seemto be takin' the Cadaras out for a soda."

　　Next day he started to make a kiddie-car for Edgar. He promised Joe he'dmake him a sail-boat. But it was up-hill work. The Cape's End Summerfolk gave a "Streets of Bagdad" and the "disaster families" got theproceeds. Then when the Summer folk began to go away it was quitenatural to give what they didn't want to take with them to a familythat had had a disaster. The Doanes had had no disaster; anyway, theDoanes weren't the kind of people you'd think of giving things to. True,Mr. Doane would sometimes come and put on your screen-doors for you, butit was as if a neighbor had come in to lend a hand. A man who livesbeside the sea and works on the land is not a picturesque figure. Then,in addition to being alive, Joe Doane wasn't Portuguese. So the Cadarasgot the underwear and the bats and preserves that weren't to be takenback to town. No one father—certainly not a father without a steadyjob—could hope to compete with all that wouldn't go into trunks.

　　Anyway, he couldn't possibly make a goat. No wit or no kindness whichemanated from him could do for his boys what that goat did for theCadaras. Joe Doane came to throw an awful hate on the government goat.Portagees were only Portagees—yet they had the government goat. Why,there had been Doanes on that Cape for more than a hundred years. Therehad been times when everybody round there worked for the Doanes, butnow the closest his boys could come to the government was beddin' downthe Cadaras' government goat! Twenty-five years ago Cadaras had huddledin a hut on the God-forsaken Azores! If they knew there was a UnitedStates government, all they knew was that there was one. And now itwas these Cadara kids were putting on airs to him about thegovernment. He knew there was a joke behind all this, behind his gettingso wrought up about it, but he would sit and watch that goat eat leavesin the vacant lot across from the Cadaras until the goat wasn't just agoat. It was the turn things had taken. One day as he was sittingwatching Tony Cadara milking his goat—wistful boys standing by—IgnaceSilva, just in from a trip, called out, "Government goat yourself!" andlaughed at he knew not what.

　　By God!—'t was true! A Doane without a vessel. A native who had lethimself be crowded out by ignorant upstarts from a filthy dot in thesea! A man who hadn't got his bearings in the turn things had taken. Ofa family who had built up a place for other folks to grow fat in. Surehe was the government goat. By just being alive he kept his family fromall the fancy things they might have if he was dead. Could you be moreof a goat than that?

　　Agnes Cadara and Myrtie came up the street together. He had a feelingthat Myrtie was set up because she was walking along with AgnesCadara. Time had been when Agnes Cadara had hung around in order to gowith Myrtie! Suddenly he thought of how his wife had said maybe AgnesCadara could wear Myrtie's shoes. He looked at Agnes Cadara's feet—atMyrtie's. Why, Myrtie looked like a kid from an orphan asylum walkingalong with the daughter of the big man of the town!

　　He got up and started toward town. He wouldn't stand it! He'd show 'em!He'd buy Myrtie—— Why, he'd buy Myrtie——! He put his hand in hispocket. Change from a dollar. The rest of the week's pay had gone to LouHibbard for groceries. Well, he could hang it up at Wilkinson's. He'dbuy Myrtie——!

　　He came to a millinery store. There was a lot of black ribbon strewnaround in the window. He stood and looked at it. Then he laughed. Justthe thing!

　　"Cheer up, Myrt," said he, when he got back home and presented it toher. "You can mourn a little. For that matter, you've got a littleto mourn about."

　　Myrtie took it doubtfully—then wound it round her throat. She likedit, and this made her father laugh. He laughed a long time—it was as ifhe didn't want to be left without the sound of his laughing.

　　"There's nothing so silly as to laugh when there's nothing to laugh at,"his wife said finally.

　　"Oh, I don't know about that," said Joe Doane.

　　"And while it's very nice to make the children presents, in ourcircumstances it would be better to give them useful presents."

　　"But what's so useful as mourning?" demanded Doane. "Think of all Myrtiehas got to mourn about. Poor, poor Myrtie—she's got a father!"

　　You can say a thing until you think it's so. You can say a thing untilyou make other people think it's so. He joked about standing betweenthem and a fireless cooker until he could see them thinking about it.All the time he hated his old job at the cold storage. A Doane had nobusiness fish. It was the business of a Doaneto go out to sea and come home with a full vessel.

　　One day he broke through that old notion that Doanes didn't work onother men's boats and half in a joke proposed to Captain Cook that hefire a ginnie or two and give him a berth on the Elizabeth. And BillCook was rattled. Finally he laughed and said, "Why, Joe, you ought tobe on your own vessel"—which was a way of saying he didn't want him onhis. Why didn't he? Did they think because he hadn't made a trip forso long that he wasn't good for one? Did they think a Doane couldn'ttake orders? Well, there weren't many boats he would go on. Most ofthem in the harbor now were owned by Portuguese. He guessed it wouldn'tcome natural to him to take orders from a Portagee—not at sea. He wastaking orders from one now at the cold storage—but as the cold storagewasn't where he belonged it didn't make so much difference who he tookorders from.

　　At the close of that day Bill Cook told him he ought to be on his ownvessel, Joe Doane sat at the top of those steps which led from his housedown to the sea and his thoughts were like the sails coming round thePoint—slowly, in a procession, and from a long way off. His father'sboats used to come round that Point this same way. He was lonesometo-night. He felt half like an old man and half like a little boy.

　　Mrs. Cadara was standing over on the platform to the front of her house.She too was looking at the sails to the far side of thebreakwater—sails coming home. He wondered if she was thinking about JoeCadara—wishing he was on one of those boats. Did she ever think aboutJoe Cadara? Did she ever wish he would come home? He'd like to ask her.He'd like to know. When you went away and didn't come back home, was allthey thought about how they'd get along? And if they were getting alongall right, was it true they'd just as soon be without you?

　　He got up. He had a sudden crazy feeling he wanted to fight for JoeCadara. He wanted to go over there and say to that fireless cookerwoman, "Trip after trip he made, in the cold and in the storm. He keptyou warm and safe here at home. It was for you he went; it was to youhe came back. And you'll miss him yet. Think this is going to keep up?Think you're going to interest those rich folks as much next year as youdid this? Five years from now you'll be on your knees with a brush tokeep those kids warm and fed."

　　He'd like to get the truth out of her! Somehow things wouldn't seem sorotten if he could know that she sometimes lay in her bed at night andcried for Joe Cadara.

　　It was quiet to-night; all the Cadara children and all the Doanes wereout looking for the government goat. The government goat was increasingher range. She seemed to know that, being a government goat, she wasprotected from harm. If a government goat comes in your yard, you are alittle slow to fire a tin can at her—not knowing just how treasonousthis may be. Nobody in Cape's End knew the exact status of a governmentgoat, and each one hesitated to ask for the very good reason that theperson asked might know and you would then be exposed as one who knewless than some one else. So the government goat went about where shepleased, and to-night she had pleased to go far. It left theneighborhood quiet—the government goat having many guardians.

　　Joe Doane felt like saying something to Mrs. Cadara. Not the rough, wildthing he had wanted to say a moment before, but just say something toher. He and she were the only people around—children all away and hiswife up-stairs with a headache. He felt lonesome and he thought shelooked that way—standing there against the sea in light that wasgetting dim. She and Joe Cadara used to sit out on that bulkhead. Shemoved toward him, as if she were lonesome and wanted to speak. On hisside of the fence, he moved a little nearer her. She said,

　　"My, I hope the goat's not lost!"

　　He said nothing.

　　"That goat, she's so tame," went on Joe Cadara's wife with pride andaffection, "she'll follow anybody around like a dog."

　　Joe Doane got up and went in the house.

　　It got so he didn't talk much to anybody. He sometimes had jokes, forhe'd laugh, but they were jokes he had all to himself and his laughingwould come as a surprise and make others turn and stare at him. It madehim seem off by himself, even when they were all sitting round thetable. He laughed at things that weren't things to laugh at, as whenMyrtie said, "Agnes Cadara had a letter from Mrs. MacCrea and amourning handkerchief." And after he'd laughed at a thing like thatwhich nobody else saw as a thing to laugh at, he'd sit and stare out atthe water. "Do be cheerful," his wife would say. He'd laugh at that.

　　But one day he burst out and said things. It was a Sunday afternoon andthe Cadaras were all going to the cemetery. Every Sunday afternoon theywent and took flowers to the stone that said, "Lost at Sea." Agnes wouldcall, "Come, Tony! We dress now for the cemetery," in a way that madethe Doane children feel that they had nothing at all to do. They filedout at the gate dressed in the best the Summer folk had left them and itseemed as if there were a fair, or a circus, and all the Doanes had tostay at home.

　　This afternoon he didn't know they were going until he saw Myrtie at thewindow. He wondered what she could be looking at as if she wanted it somuch. When he saw, he had to laugh.

　　"Why, Myrt," said he, "you can go to the cemetery if you want to.There are lots of Doanes there. Go on and pay them a visit.

　　"I'm sure they'd be real glad to see you," he went on, as she stoodthere doubtfully. "I doubt if anybody has visited them for a long time.You could visit your great-grandfather, Ebenezer Doane. Whales were soafraid of that man that they'd send word around from sea to sea that hewas coming. And Lucy Doane is there—Ebenezer's wife. Lucy Doane was awoman who took what she wanted. Maybe the whales were afraid ofEbenezer—but Lucy wasn't. There was a dispute between her and herbrother about a quilt of their mother's, and in the dead of night shewent into his house and took it off him while he slept. Spunk up! Belike the old Doanes! Go to the cemetery and wander around from graveto grave while the Cadaras are standin' by their one stone! Myfather—he'd be glad to see you. Why, if he was alive now—if CaptainSilas Doane was here, he'd let the Cadaras know whether they could walkon the sidewalk or whether they were to go in the street!"

　　Myrtie was interested, but after a moment she turned away. "You only gofor near relatives," she sighed.

　　He stood staring at the place where she had been. He laughed; stoppedthe laugh; stood there staring. "You only go for near relatives."Slowly he turned and walked out of the house. The government goat, lefthome alone, came up to him as if she thought she'd take a walk too.

　　"Go to hell!" said Joe Doane, and his voice showed that inside he wascrying.

　　Head down, he walked along the beach as far as the breakwater. Hestarted out on it, not thinking of what he was doing. So the only thinghe could do for Myrtie was give her a reason for going to the cemetery.She wanted him in the cemetery—so she'd have some place to go onSunday afternoons! She could wear black then—all black, not just aribbon round her neck. Suddenly he stood still. Would she have anyblack to wear? He had thought of a joke before which all other jokes hehad ever thought of were small and sick. Suppose he were to take himselfout of the way and then they didn't get the things they thought they'dhave in place of him? He walked on fast—fast and crafty, picking hisway among the smaller stones in between the giant stones in a fast, sureway he never could have picked it had he been thinking of where he went.He went along like a cat who is going to get a mouse. And in him grewthis giant joke. Who'd give them the fireless cooker? Would it comeinto anybody's head to give young Joe Doane a sail-boat just because hisfather was dead? They'd rather have a goat than a father. But supposethey were to lose the father and get no goat? Myrtie'd be a mournerwithout any mourning. She'd be ashamed to go to the cemetery.

　　He laughed so that he found himself down, sitting down on one of thesmaller rocks between the giant rocks, on the side away from town,looking out to sea.

　　He forgot his joke and knew that he wanted to return to the sea. Doanesbelonged at sea. Ashore things struck you funny—then, after they'd oncegot to you, hurt. He thought about how he used to come round this Pointwhen Myrtie was a baby. As he passed this very spot and saw the townlying there in the sun he'd think about her, and how he'd see her now,and how she'd kick and crow. But now Myrtie wanted to go and visithim—in the cemetery. Oh, it was a joke all right. But he guessed hewas tired of jokes. Except the one great joke—joke that seemed toslap the whole of life right smack in the face.

　　The tide was coming in. In—Out—Doanes and Doanes. In—Out—Him too.In—Out—He was getting wet. He'd have to move up higher. But—whymove? Perhaps this was as near as he could come to getting back to sea.Caught in the breakwater. That was about it—wasn't it? Rocks were queerthings. You could wedge yourself in where you couldn't get yourself out.He hardly had to move. If he'd picked a place he couldn't have picked abetter one. Wedge himself in—tide almost in now—too hard to getout—pounded to pieces, like the last vessel Doanes had owned. Near ashe could come to getting back to sea. Near as he deserved to come—himfreezing fish with ginnies. And there'd be no fireless cooker!

　　He twisted his shoulders to wedge in where it wouldn't be easy to wedgeout. Face turned up, he saw something move on the great flat rock abovethe jagged rocks. He pulled himself up a little; he rose; he swung up tothe big rock above him. On one flat-topped boulder stood Joe Doane. Onthe other flat-topped boulder stood the government goat.

　　"Go to hell!" said Joe Doane, and he was sobbing. "Go to hell!"

　　The government goat nodded her head a little in a way that wagged herbeard and shook her bag.

　　"Go home! Drown yourself! Let me be! Go 'way!" It was fast, and choked,and he was shaking.

　　The goat would do none of these things. He sat down, his back to thegovernment goat, and tried to forget that she was there. But there aremoments when a goat is not easy to forget. He was willing there shouldbe some joke to his death—like caught in the breakwater, but hewasn't going to die before a goat. After all, he'd amounted to alittle more than that. He'd look around to see if perhaps she hadstarted home. But she was always standing right there looking at him.

　　Finally he jumped up in a fury. "What'd you come for? What do you wantof me? How do you expect to get home?" Between each question he'd waitfor an answer. None came.

　　He picked up a small rock and threw it at the government goat. Shejumped, slipped, and would have fallen from the boulder if he hadn'tcaught at her hind legs. Having saved her, he yelled: "You needn'texpect me to save you. Don't expect anything from me!"

　　He'd have new gusts of fury at her. "What you out here for? Think youwas a mountain goat? Don't you know the tide's comin' in? Think youcan get back easy as you got out?"

　　He kicked at her hind legs to make her move on. She stood and looked atthe water which covered the in-between rocks on which she had picked herway out. "Course," said Joe Doane. "Tide's in—you fool! You damnedgoat!" With the strength of a man who is full of fury he picked her upand threw her to the next boulder. "Hope you kill yourself!" was hisheartening word.

　　But the government goat did not kill herself. She only looked around forfurther help.

　　To get away from her, he had to get her ashore. He guided and lifted,planted fore legs and shoved at hind legs, all the time telling her hehoped she'd kill herself. Once he stood still and looked all around andthought. After that he gave the government goat a shove that sent her inwater above her knees. Then he had to get in too and help her to ahigher rock.

　　It was after he had thus saved the government goat from the sea out ofwhich the government goat had cheated him that he looked ahead to seethere were watchers on the shore. Cadaras had returned from thecemetery. Cadaras and Doanes were watching him bring home the governmentgoat.

　　From time to time he'd look up at them. There seemed to be no littleagitation among this group. They'd hold on to each other and jump up anddown like watchers whose men are being brought in from a wreck. Therewas one place where again he had to lift the government goat. After thishe heard shouts and looked ashore to see his boys dancing up and downlike little Indians.

　　Finally they had made it. The watchers on the shore came running out tomeet them.

　　"Oh, Mr. Doane!" cried Mrs. Cadara, hands out-stretched, "I amthankful to you! You saved my goat! I have no man myself to save mygoat. I have no man. I have no man!"

　　Mrs. Cadara covered her face with her hands, swayed back and forth, andsobbed because her man was dead.

　　Young Cadaras gathered around her. They seemed of a sudden to know theyhad no father, and to realize that this was a thing to be deplored.Agnes even wet her mourning handkerchief.

　　Myrtie came up and took his arm. "Oh, Father," said she, "I was so'fraid you'd hurt yourself!"

　　He looked down into his little girl's face. He realized that just alittle while before he had expected never to look into her face again.He looked at the government goat, standing a little apart, benevolentlyregarding this humankind. Suddenly Joe Doane began to laugh. Helaughed—laughed—and laughed. And it was a laugh.

　　"When I saw you lift that goat!" said his wife, in the voice of a womanwho may not have a fireless cooker, but—!

　　Young Joe Doane, too long brow-beaten not to hold the moment of hisadvantage, began dancing round Tony Cadara with the taunting yell, "Youain't got no pa to save your goat!" And Edgar lispingly chimed in,"Ain't got no pa to save your goat!"

　　"Here!" cried their father, "Stop devilin' them kids about what theycan't help. Come! Hats on! Every Doane, every Cadara, goes up to see ifEd. Smith might happen to have a soda."

　　But young Joe had suffered too long to be quickly silent. "You ain'tgot no pa to get you soda!" persisted he.

　　"Joe!" commanded his father, "stop pesterin' them kids or I'll lickyou!"

　　And Joe, drunk with the joy of having what the Cadaras had not,shrieked, "You ain't got no pa to lick you! You ain't got no pa tolick you!"