ople are quick to make it plain they're as bad off as
the next one.

At first it seemed to be still at the Cadaras. The children had gone to
sleep--so had the friends. Only one sound now where there had been many
before. And that seemed to come out of the sea. You got it after a wave
broke--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 Cadara
crying for her husband, Joe Cadara.

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_."

He wasn't sure just _who_ the joke was on. He lay thinking about it. At
three in the morning, when you can't sleep and the tide's in, you might
get it mixed--who the joke was on.

But, no, the joke _was_ on them, that they'd had their long slow deep
_In_--_Out_--their whalin