"Right there, in your brain, there, there, and _only_ there! I'm no more flesh and blood than--than I _ever_ was, _because, you murderer, you and your damned wife never would let me be_! Well, do you see through me _now_?" "No! No!" screamed Mr. Montagu. "I _don't_ see through you! I don't!" But as he leaned forward to clutch at him in his terror, all that he could see before him was a closed door beyond a dozen tables, a disused entranceway diagonally opposite the one that had let them in. "I _don't_ believe you!" he wailed. "Oh, my God, my God, my God, _where are you_?" He turned frantically to the men and women nearest him. "You saw him! There _was_ a boy with me, wasn't there? Wasn't there? Yes, see, there, isn't he going for that door? Oh, my boy, my boy!" And he dashed toward it. He heard the terrible screams of women, and chairs and a table crashed in his wake. He reached it. It was locked. Desperately sobbing, he hurled himself against it. It seemed to him as if all the men in the restaurant fell upon him. Strong, merciless hands dragged down and pinioned the wrists with which he had beaten against the door. "GOVERNMENT GOAT"[11] [Note 11: Copyright, 1919, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1920, by Susan Glaspell Cook.] BY SUSAN GLASPELL From _The Pictorial Review_ Joe Doane couldn't get to sleep. On one side of him a family were crying because their man was dead, and on the other side a man was celebrating because he was alive. When he couldn't any longer stand the wails of the Cadaras, Joe moved from his bedroom to the lounge in the sitting-room. But the lounge in the sitting-room, beside making his neck go in a way no neck wants to go, brought him too close to Ignace Silva's rejoicings in not having been in one of the dories that turned over when the schooner _Lillie-Bennie_ was caught in the squall last Tuesday afternoon and unable to gather all her men back from the dories before the sea gathered them. Joe Cadara was in a boat that hadn't made it--hence the wails to the left of the Doanes, for Joe Cadara left a wife and four children and they had plenty of friends who could cry, too. But Ignace Silva--more's the pity, for at two o'clock in the morning you _like_ to wish the person who is keeping you awake was dead--got back to the vessel. So to-night his friends were there with bottles, for when a man _might_ be dead certainly the least you can do is to take notice of him by getting him drunk.