"There's no hope now," said Joe, darkly shaking his head. "No man in his senses would buck up against a goat."
The little Doanes wouldn't come in and eat their breakfast. They'd rather stay out and walk round the goat.
"I think it's too bad," their mother sighed, "the kiddie-car and the ball-suit and the sail-boat were enough for the children to bear—without this goat. It seems our children haven't got any of the things the Cadaras have got."
"Except—" said Joe, and waited for some one to fill it in. But no one did, 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 the goat as he went off to work.
But he wasn't joking when he came home at noon. He turned in at the front gate and the goat blocked his passage. The Cadaras had been willing 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 government goat!"
Every one fell back, as when blasphemy—as when treason—have been uttered. These Portuguese kids looking at him like that—as if they were part of the government and he outside. He was so mad that he bawled at Tony Cadara, "To hell with your government goat!"
From her side of the fence, Mrs. Cadara called, "Tony, you bring the goat right home," as one who calls her child—and her goat—away from evil.