Finally Mrs. Doane raised on her pillow and sighed. "Well, I suppose she wonders 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 had perhaps never spoken for itself, "that she feels bad because she'll never see him again."
"Why, of course she does," said his wife impatiently, as if he had contradicted something she had said.
But after usurping his thought she went right back to her own. "I don't see 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 the pity. He had his own three children—and you could be a Doane without having money to help with—though some people didn't get that through their heads. Things used to be different with the Doanes. When the tide's in and you awake at three in the morning it all gets a good deal like the sea—at least with Joe Doane it did now. His grandfather, Ebenezer Doane, the whaling captain—In—Out—Silas Doane—a fleet of vessels off the Grand Banks—In—Out—All the Doanes. They had helped make 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 would say 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 a joke on them."
"If it's a joke," said Mrs. Doane firmly, "it's not on them."