To let the boys coast past my house because it's the only real
coasting place around and I'm the only one who's MEAN enough to
spoil their fun as all the other property owners don't mind!
Sign Here ____________________
Crabby Jacobs
Wow! You should have seen Crabby's face when he gets through reading
this! It's a fiery red and he's jumping about on the front porch,
waving his arms as agitated as a kernel of pop corn that's getting
ready to pop.
If Crabby could have caught us right then he'd have broken all the
resolutions we'd made out for him at once. He's wise enough to know,
though, that we must be peeking at him from some place, so he goes to
each end of the porch and shakes his fist at the empty air, hoping he's
shaking it in our direction. Then he stamps back to the door, tears the
sign off and takes it inside, slamming the door after him so hard it's
a wonder he don't jerk it off the hinges.
"Well," says Pete, when the eruption is over, "I guess we've fixed
things now."
"Yes," says Dill, mournfully, "and just think what's going to happen to
that sign I took so much pains lettering. All my beautiful art work
ruined!"
"On top of that," adds Rod, "he's probably making up a resolution all
his own.... 'I hereby resolve to shoot every member of the gang on
sight'!"
"Maybe so," I admits, "just the same I'm not sorry we did what we did.
Crabby at least knows right where we stand."
"And meanwhile," moans Pete, "we've got to sit through this swell
sliding weather...."
"Which we'd have had to do anyhow," I reminds. "You guys wait a little
while. Don't jump on this idea too quick. Give those resolutions time
to bump around inside Crabby's head. You can't tell ... he might all of
a sudden get _magnanimous_."
"If he gets anything like that word sounds," says Rod, doubtfully,
"there's no hope for us."
"Go on!" I laughs. "I had to define that word and I know what it
means--to raise yourself above what is low, mean and ungenerous'!"
Rod shakes his head.
"Less hope than ever," he comes back. "Fellows, we might as well put up
our toboggan and go in for ice skating. As long as Crabby's on this
hill, we're sunk!"
* * * * *
It's a wise army that knows when it's defeated because then it doesn't
waste time fighting for lost causes or suffering any needless
casualties ... and, in our case, we don't have to do any more scouting
to know that our one-man enemy will be on the warpath with double
vengeance from now on. So, though we outnumber him nine to one, we
decide to follow the words of the bird who said, "discretion's the
better part of valor" and to steer clear of Crabby altogether.
"Only thing I wish for now," says Dill, "is a thaw!... If this good
sliding weather keeps up it's going to be a heartbreaker."
But you might know the weather man would want to rub it in. Seems like
somebody must have told him we couldn't use Pierson's Hill for coasting
because he hands out a perfect assortment of cold, clear days and
moonlight nights with just enough snow sprinkled in to make us cry for
mercy.
"If that hill was only inside the city limits I'd be for taking the
matter up with the town council," says Pete, "and getting them to pass
an ordinance ordering the road to be closed for our use. Then old
Crabby could holler his head off and it wouldn't do him any good."
But though we exercised our brains every way we knew how, we couldn't
seem to hit on a plan of getting old Crabby to be a sport. He just
didn't give a care what other folks did so long as they didn't irritate
him. And the moment they did, he let them hear about it. After that
folks would usually leave Crabby alone like we were doing ... which
meant that he'd come off victorious, whether he was right or wrong.
About a week later, when we're all feeling something like Washington's
soldiers that winter at Valley Forge, Rod comes running up with a piece
of real news.
"What do you know, guys?" he shouts. "I just came by the depot and
Crabby's leaving town!"
"Get off!"
"He never left town in his life!"
"Quit your kidding!"
"Absolute fact!" replies Rod. "I can't believe my eyes but I sneak up
and speak to the ticket agent and he tells me Crabby's been called to
Northport on account of the serious illness of his sister."
"Gee, that's too bad," says Pete. "I mean, in another way, it's pretty
good!"
"How long do you suppose he'll be gone?" I asks.
"No idea," answers Rod, "but figure it out for yourself--if she's good
and sick she won't be over it in a day. Say, if this weather only holds
out...!"
"Now's when it'll probably thaw," puts in Dill, with his usual
pessimism, "but let's go out and see what the slide looks like."
* * * * *
It's about a mile across town to Pierson's Hill from where we are but
that mile disappears in a little over five minutes. Just goes to show
how crazy we were about coasting.
"Say, guys, the hill's in great shape!" calls Pete, who's beaten us by
half a block. "She's iced!"
Sure enough! There's walls of snow on both sides the road but the
tracks in the center are worn down and frozen where farmer Durgan has
driven his heavy sled into town and back. We start climbing the hill,
smoothing out a few rough places as we go. It isn't long before we come
in sight of Crabby's house, setting up there on the bend.
"See," points out Rod, "he's gone all right. The blinds are all down."
"Boy, oh boy!" chuckled Dill. "I'm not wishing his sister any bad luck
but...!"
And then we come close to the bend and all the fellows let out a holler
at once as they caught a glimpse of the hill.
"Well, what do you know about this?"
"The old skinflint!"
"Sand!"
Sand is right. Bright, yellow sand sprinkled thick all across the road
up above, around and below the bend. Sand by the wheelbarrow load and a
little path dug in the snow from a window in his basement to the edge
of the bluff where it had been dumped off on the road. All this
testifying to the fact that Crabby Jacobs had worked hard and long to
keep us from having any fun while he was gone.
"Gee, looks like he'd almost undermined his house to get the sand to do
this!" observes Dill, glumly. "But leave it to Crabby to put a crimp in
us. It'll take us two nights to get this hill in shape for sliding...."
"And by that time he may be back," groans Pete.
"Besides," says Rod, "there's no water near here to put on the road
after we clear off the sand. We'll have to carry it clear from Mr.
Durgan's!"
"Just the same," I puts in, "let's show Crabby he can't stump us. We're
going to coast on this hill while he's away no matter how much work it
takes to fix things."
"You bet we are!" echoes Pete, and the gang chimes in.
It turns out to be some job! Even worse than we expect. We set to work
with shovels to clear away the sand and then pack in some new snow and
pour water over it from pails we've loaded on our toboggan and carried
from Durgan's.
"Old Mr. Jacobs is mighty sore, boys," warns Mr. Durgan. "Better be
sure you're not around when he comes back. I think you're taking a
chance trying to slide on this hill again."
"Well, he can't do any more than chase us off," answers Dill, but Mr.
Durgan shakes his head.
"You can't tell," he says. "Mr. Jacobs is a mighty queer man."
All of which doesn't help us feel any better. But the second night
we've got the hill in wonderful shape and we're having such a good time
that we forget all about Crabby even existing. Talk about coasting!
Say, the first time down the hill we broke all long distance records.
You know, Pierson's creek is at the bottom and the farthest we'd ever
gone before was just to the bridge but this trip we're still traveling
like the wind and go about half a block beyond ... a good mile and a
quarter's slide.
"Wow!" yells Pete. "If we never take another coast, this was worth all
the trouble we've been to...!"
"Yeah," kids Dill, "but remember this ... the farther we slide, the
farther we've got to walk back!"
"In the snow for that wisecrack!" say Rod, and pushes Dill head first
into a big drift.
You can see from this how good we're feeling. The old moon is out, a
little lopsided but almost full. There's quite a stiff breeze blowing,
though, which races big hunks of clouds across the sky. The kind of
weather Pete says is nice enough now but which has all the earmarks of
a change.
Well, we're on our way up the hill again, talking and joshing, when the
wind brings us the three long toots of the night train as it's coming
into town and somehow it makes us all think of a certain party.
"I wonder how Crabby's sister is?" Rod asks, kind of casual like.
"Aw, he's only been gone a little over two days," scoffs Pete. "You
needn't be expecting him back yet!"
"I know ... but maybe that's all the longer his sister could stand
him," Rod comes back, with a grin. "Anyhow, I don't breathe easy till
half an hour after every train comes in!"
"Especially when we've all got a sneaking hunch that Crabby, after
going to all that work, isn't going to stay away any longer'n he can
help!" sums up Dill.
I couldn't tell you now, as I think back, who it was that saw what we
saw, right then, first. But I'm here to state that the first glimpse we
all got of it sure made our blood tingle.
"Look!" we all seemed to holler at once. "The old fairgrounds!"
On fire! Yes, sir ... and all of a sudden crackling noise followed by a
puff and one of the rickety frame buildings across the road from Crabby
Jacobs' house bulges at the sides so that fire and smoke comes roaring
through. And in no time there's a bright red reflection in the sky
growing lighter all the while until the moon's not in it for
illumination.
"Gee!" cries Pete. "Looks like the whole fairgrounds is going! You
suppose we'll be blamed for it?"
"Why should we?" I asks, as we're running up the hill to the bend.
"Well, it had to start somehow and we seem to be the only guys around!"
"It's tramps that's done it!" hollers Rod. "I saw two dirty looking men
hanging around over there about half an hour ago!"
"Sure, but how you going to prove it?" Pete wants to know. "We'd better
dig out of here!"
"No use," says I. "If we're going to be blamed, we can't help it now.
Our folks know where we are and...."
"Look at that fire travel!" yells Dill. "There goes the building next
the road. If it wasn't for this wind!..."
"No fire protection out this far, either," says Pete. "That's why the
fairgrounds was moved."
We're up close to the blaze now and it's easily the biggest fire I've
ever seen. All the old barns and sheds and display buildings that have
been falling to pieces on account of being out of repair make the
swellest kind of kindling wood and the flames, helped out by the wind,
are leaping high in the air, sucking out for new things to burn. It's a
great sight.
"Some hot!" shouts Rod, backing up. "Say, it's melting the ice on our
slide!"
It is for a fact! The banks of snow are disappearing along the road,
too, on account of the heat.
"Old Crabby must have cast a spell over this hill!" says Pete as we all
feel a kind of uncanny feeling creep over us.
Then, Dill, who's watching the flames and sparks as the wind's carrying
'em high across the road, grabs me by the arm and points toward
Crabby's house. Holy smoke! There's a spot on the roof that's took fire!
"Goodbye!" calls Rod. "Now we'll be blamed sure!"
"We might beat that out," figures Pete, "if we could get inside and up
on the roof."
"Yeah, but who's going to break into Crabby's house?" replies Dill.
"Not me!"
The little spot on the roof begins to grow bigger.
"Good night!" yells Pete. "There's another place! In a minute she'll be
a goner!"
Honest, I'm standing there, looking on, and no matter how hard I try I
can't help feeling sorry for old Crabby. Somehow, it comes over me just
then how awful alone he must be and how little real joy he must be
getting out of life ... and then to come back and find the only place
that's been any comfort to him in ashes...! Well, after thinking of
this, if I've had any temptation to rejoice over his misfortune on
account of the way he's treated us, it's gone in a hurry.
"Fellows!" I says, "We've got to figure some way to save that house!"
The boys look at me as though they think I'm crazy. Not that they
wouldn't have been glad to have done what they could but the whole
thing looks so hopeless. And then the idea comes to me!
"Quick, guys!" I calls. "This melting snow! It's great packing! We'll
soak it up on the roof!"
I don't need to go any further. The fellows are diving into the snow p.
d. q. and in less than a minute we've got a firing line in operation.
It takes us a few seconds to get the range but pretty soon great gobs
of snow are landing on top and all around the blazing spots and it
isn't long before the spots send up a hissing noise, grow dim, and then
go black out. But now the old fairgrounds fire is at its height and
firebrands are blowing across the road and dropping on Crabby's house
like hailstones. By this time folks from town have commenced arriving
and some of them join us in the battle. We keep peppering Crabby's roof
from all sides, aiming at every place where a blazing spark or
firebrand lands and it's a merry fight to keep these places from
getting beyond our control.
"If we could only get inside!" says Pete, when it looks like all we can
do isn't going to be enough.
"Here's Mr. Jacobs now!" cries someone, and the next instant the most
frenzied individual you ever saw comes running up. He takes in what
we're doing at a glance.
"Poor old duffer!" someone else says. "He's run all the way out from
town!"
"Boys!" gasps Mr. Jacobs, sinking down on the front steps, exhausted,
"Here's my keys! If you'd like to get to the roof...!"
I'm nearest to old Crabby and I grab the keys and rush up to the door
calling to the fellows to follow me.
"Hurry!" yells a spectator, "There's quite a blaze on the south side!"
It doesn't take us long, once we get in, to race up the stairs, into
the attic and to climb out onto the roof from there where, joining
hands, we lower Pete to where the worst blaze is. Pete, using his heavy
woolen jacket, beats out the flames ... and the crowd cheers.
Looking down, I see the white face of old Crabby staring up and hear
him shout, in a high, nervous voice: "That's the way, boys!... That's
the way!"
We stick on the roof after that till the danger's all over and then,
tuckered out, we slide into the attic and crawl down the ladder into
the house.
"Whew!" says Dill, "I'm glad I don't have to fight fires for a living!"
"All I can say is," joshes Pete in a low voice, "it's a lucky thing for
Crabby we decided to go coasting no matter how hard he tried to keep us
from it. Otherwise we wouldn't have been out here and Crabby would have
been minus...."
Just then, as we reach the first floor landing, we come face to face
with a familiar looking something.
"Our resolutions!" cries Dill. "And look--he ... he's _signed_ 'em!"
Sure enough. There's our cardboard with Dill's fancy lettering, propped
up against the wall. The heading "I, Crabby Jacobs, do hereby
resolve--" stands out strong and, in large but shaky handwriting, on
the line we've drawn for his signature, there's the name "_Crabby_
Jacobs"....
Say, you'll think we're soft ... but there's something wet comes into
our eyes as we look and Dill expresses how we feel when he says, kind
of embarrassed, "Gee, guys, when we wanted water we couldn't get it and
now...."
Crabby?... Naw--no one calls him that any more. Resolutions? Well, the
way he's lived up to the ones we made out for him has made us sort of
ashamed of the resolutions we've been trying to keep!