Chapter II: Part 2

"My ankle begins to feel lame," Don admitted during the intermission between the second and last period. "Come on, boys--let's give 'em everything we've got. I'd like to take the grin off that Scotty's face!"

"So would I!" echoed a voice, impulsively.

Team members glanced about, questioningly. The voice belonged to Don's understudy, the champion fancy skater. Frederick appeared self-conscious and a bit confused as attention focused upon him.

"You ought to feel like taking Scotty's grin off," rapped Rand, mercilessly, "you're the guy who put it on him!"

"I know it," answered Frederick, lamely, "but...!"

"Aw, razzberries!" exploded Rand. "We've had enough of you already!"

A tired but grim Kirkwood six skated out on the ice to resume hostilities in the third period. Melville, deciding to coast in on the one goal lead, threw up a stiffer defense than ever. As the minutes crawled along, the one goal advantage grew mountainous. Don Keith, handicapped as he was by the weak ankle, had played a stellar game but even his presence in the line-up had failed to penetrate the Melville goal. The visitors were just too good. Hats off to the greatest team a state high school had ever produced!

"Oh, oh--Don is out!" A sympathetic murmur went the rounds as Kirkwood's right wing was helped to the sidelines.

"Go after 'em, Freddy!" Don called to the man who was to substitute for him, as Frederick got up from the bench, peeling off his sweater. "Don't let that Scotty kid you! He'd like to make a monkey out of everybody if he could!"

"I know," Frederick shot back. "I've got a score to settle with him!"

Certain fans could not suppress a groan as Frederick, the Great, took Don Keith's place. But these certain fans had no way of knowing, at the moment, that something had snapped inside the champion fancy skater--a something that had been holding him back for years. First evidence of the change was a collision which took place at mid-ice between party of the first part and one Scotty Lathrom who became party of the second part, and quite the most worsted party, inasmuch as he did a backward somersault following the impact while the party of the first part simply rebounded and set off into Melville territory at a blazing pace.

"Yea, Frederick!" shrieked astonished Kirkwood rooters, as the fellow who had never shown any fighting spirit in a hockey match, zig-zagged through to within fifteen feet of the Melville cage and blazed away. His shot was accurate, a startled Melville goalie warding it off with his chest pad. Frederick became lost the next instant in a slashing pile-up in front of the Melville cage as he threw himself after the puck, trying madly to get his stick on it again and to drive it into the net for a score. It was the first time during the game that Kirkwood had gotten deep within Melville territory and Frederick's feat was immediately heartening to his fellow players.

"Face-off!" cried the referee, diving into the mêlée and separating Scotty and Frederick, both of whom had fallen over the puck.

"You're not mad are you?" joshed Scotty, and grinned.

As the puck was dropped between them, Scotty knocked the puck to the side. It whanged against the sideboards with Frederick again in furious pursuit. He bumped shoulders with Melville's solidly built right defense and sat down suddenly but was up in an instant and trailing the defense man who had set off down the ice. Frederick was using his speed and his natural skating wizardry now as he glided around from behind, crouched low, hooked the puck away from the defense man, sent up a shower of ice as he swerved and did an about-face. Most of the Melville team was ahead of him as he cut back toward the Melville goal amid the wildest sort of clamor. A pop-eyed Rand Downey came sliding in from nowhere, pounding his stick on the ice.

"Shoot it to me!" he yelled, "to me!"

And Frederick shot, scooting the puck across the ice on a perfect pass.

Almost at once, Rand was covered, so that he stopped short and swung to the side.

"Right back at you!" he shouted, and backhanded the puck on a sizzling drive.

"Holy cats!" screamed Kirkwood's veteran right wing, dancing about on his injured ankle. "Who said Freddy couldn't play hockey? The guy's gone goofy! He's a whiz! Look at him spear that puck, will you? And look at him dodge in there--right on top of the goalie! Oh! Oh!... A perfect feint! He's pulled the goalie out of his cage and there goes his shot!... It's IN.... Man alive! Freddy's the first to put a puck inside that Melville net!!!... Oh, am I glad I had to leave the game?... Oh, this is wonderful!... Look at Scotty!... Where's that grin now, Scotty?... Tied the old score, didn't we?... How much time, somebody?... Three minutes?... You _will_ kid that baby about his fancy skating, will you?... Well, how was that for a _fancy_ exhibition?"

On the ice, Rand Downey put an arm around the fellow he had cussed, and cried his apology. Team members clapped a fussed Frederick on the back. He knew what team spirit meant now ... knew why fellows fought shoulder to shoulder to try to win for each other ... knew what real comradeship felt like for the first time in his life. And knew it simply because he had been wounded to the quick by an opponent who had thought to have some fun at his expense. Thwarted at answering Scotty's fancy skating challenge, Frederick's only way of getting back at him had been through direct competition. And now he was finding what a thrill actual combat really was! That backward flip-flop that Scotty had taken as a result of their meeting head-on had done Frederick a world of good!

"I'm not through with you yet!" the fancy skating champion told Melville's star centre as the puck went back to be faced off in the centre circle.

Melville team mates glumly consulted one another. It was a shock to have been scored upon since no other opponent had been able to turn the trick. But this Frederick, the whoever he was, would be a marked man from now on! They'd bottle him up and put the cork in.

The puck had scarcely been put back in play than the cyclone struck Melville. It was twisting and turning, taking a zigzag course over the ice, threatening, receding, and threatening again, as a goalie crouched in the mouth of the cage like a Kansas farmer in a storm cellar, afraid any moment that a little round, black object might blow into the net and take the game with it! Such an exhibition of skating and stick handling had never been witnessed as Kirkwood's substitute left wing put on for the edification of the crowd and one Scotty Lathrom in particular. But Melville, fighting desperately to stand off this tempestuous one-man attack, stopped a stream of shots at the goal, fired either by Frederick or one of his team mates who had been placed in an advantageous position due to his whizzing passwork.

"Half a minute to play--looks like an overtime game!" shouted someone.

A terrific mix-up occurred at centre ice. The cyclone went down, curling up in a heap and with most of the wind taken out of it. Rand Downey grabbed a dazed Frederick up and set him on his feet. The referee's whistle screeched. It looked like someone was going to be penalized but the official called no foul as Scotty separated himself from the tangle and stood swayingly on his feet to face a rival who had shaken Melville's defense to its foundations.

"I still think you're a rotten fancy skater!" he taunted.

But it was Frederick now who did the grinning. And it was Frederick who got the puck on the next face-off, blazing it down the ice on an attempted long shot for goal. The shot was blocked, however, by the Melville left defense but he was set upon almost instantly by Rand Downey and Steve Lucas and Bill Stewart--Kirkwood sending a formation of four into Melville territory in a last second effort to score. So furious was the onslaught, players on both sides went to the ice. In the mêlée the puck was hit into the open between the struggling group and the Melville cage. Scotty and Frederick, near centre ice, set out in a race for the disc. The heaving mass of players blocked the direct path, so Scotty veered to go around it.

"Man, oh man--look at Frederick, will you?..." gasped Don Keith. "He's heading straight for that gang on the ice. He must be going to pull his airplane dive in order to beat Scotty to the puck ... hey! There he goes...!"

Leaving his feet in a spectacular dive through space, Frederick, the Great, Barker, cleared the heads and forms of mates and foemen, arms outstretched, to land on his chest and go sliding across the ice, skimming directly in front of Scotty who catapulted over him and went skidding into the sideboards. Raking out his stick as he slid along, never for one instant having taken his eyes off the puck, the champion fancy skater made connections, clipping the disc so that it upended and rolled, skimming the leg of Melville's desperate goalie as it bounced over and into a corner of the net.

Bang!

At the sound of the timer's gun, Don Keith deliriously hugged Coach Howard and Kirkwood rooters did unaccountable things. They tried mainly to get down on the ice and capture a fellow who had written hockey history with his skates and who was now jabbering about writing something else for the especial benefit of a crestfallen Scotty Lathrom who was sitting dazedly where he had fallen, propped up against the sideboards and staring unbelievingly at the final score which read: Kirkwood, 2; Melville, 1.

"Stick around!" cried the champion fancy skater. "See if you can duplicate this!"

And, despite the furious pace he had just undergone, Kirkwood's substitute left wing started a series of intricate maneuvers which held spectators spellbound. Melville team members stopped to look on, Scotty crawling to his feet that he might see the better. Finishing with a flourish, the skater bowed mockingly in the direction of his opponents as he pointed to the lines he had etched into the scarred ice.

Everyone strained their eyes for a moment, then a great shout went up and Melville team members made a hurried rush for the clubhouse, Scotty leading the way. And well he might, for Melville's star centre had already seen more than enough of the figure who had left his now undisputed autograph on the ice:

_Frederick, the Great_....

CRABBY

Of course it was a nervy thing to do, we'll admit that, but just the same, if you'd known old Crabby Jacobs the way we knew him, you really wouldn't have blamed us. According to our figuring he had it coming to him ... and, after all--what we did wasn't any worse than sending a person a terrible comic Valentine. Besides, it had a good moral to it if Crabby could only see it, and since this was the time of year for people to turn over new leaves and swear to be better and better in every way, why shouldn't Crabby be interested in the resolutions we'd drawn up for him?

I'm not saying whose idea it was since that would be giving me away but I will say this--that all the fellows fell for it at once and Dill, who was taking a sign painting course up at high school, volunteered to fix up what was written so that old Crabby couldn't miss seeing it.

I suppose now you're wondering who Crabby was and just why we had it in for him. Well, that won't take long to tell. Crabby Jacobs was the old geezer who lived by himself in a nice-enough house right close to the bend in the Pierson's Hill road. Where he lived was just outside the limits of the town and the reason he lived there, we guessed, was because he was a good three blocks away from any neighbors. Of course the old fairground property was across the road from him but none of the rickety frame buildings had been used for years. And hardly anybody used the steep Pierson's Hill road except in the winter when it made the best sliding for miles around. At the top of the hill, a quarter of a mile above Crabby Jacobs' place, farmer Durgan and his wife and seven kids lived ... and he was sort of accustomed to boys because he was always mighty nice to us when we'd come out with our toboggans to start in coasting. Why, he even got out his horse one time and helped us level off the snow in places where it was too deep for our runners to track. But Crabby? Say ... it was at the bend, halfway down this mile long hill, that we'd be hitting it up at the greatest speed and it was right here that we'd get stuck. Crabby wasn't going to have any sliding past his place. No siree! It was a darn nuisance to begin with ... and we was always shoutin' and carryin' on and he didn't like it a little bit ... not a little bit!

"But Mr. Jacobs," we'd argue, "you don't own the road and we'll promise not to make a sound when we're going by and we don't see how we're interfering with anything you're doing!"

"I ain't goin' to argue!" he'd reply. "You boys know what's right. Besides, coastin' is dangerous. You might run into somebody comin' around that bend or tip over and hurt yourselves. I'm really doin' you boys a favor by keepin' you from riskin' your necks and this is the thanks I get. Go along now and don't let me catch you slidin' past here again!"

Well, what are you going to do with a customer like this? Old Crabby Jacobs has a good-sized temper when it's stirred up and we don't care to get in a fight with anybody. On the other hand we hate like sixty to give up the swellest coasting we'd had in years.

"Ought to be some way to get around Crabby," says Pete Bagley.

"Or else to get even with him," explodes Rod Evans.

And so we get the idea of the New Year's resolutions. And Dill Saunders, with his knack for lettering, prints what we've thought up on a big piece of cardboard to which we tie a string like we was going to hang a picture. Then we hike out to Crabby Jacobs' and while the fellows hide down around the bend, me and Pete sneak up to Crabby's door and hang the sign on the door knob and then bang on the door real loud. After that we does a different kind of coasting to get out of sight.

It isn't ten seconds later when Crabby comes out on the porch in his shirt sleeves, acting suspicious and excited. He looks all around but he can't see anything so he starts back into the house and then he sees plenty! He lets out a gasp which, on account of the cold air, turns into a puff of white and we can tell from that, he's steaming hot. There's a lot of little white puffs follows as he reads to himself what's printed on the sign.

I, Crabby Jacobs, do hereby resolve--

To get over being cranky

To smile at least once a day

To remember that I used to be young once

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!

THE SKI BATTLE

To begin with, Reed Markham of the Georgia Markhams, had never seen it snow until his _Pappy_ sent him north to a finishing school. He came of what has been described as "warm Southern blood" which perhaps partially explained his feeling that northern schoolmates at Seldon Prep were "cold" to him.

"No wonder you people have to have steam radiators in your homes!" he had been reported as saying once, when provoked at Yankee coolness.

But if Reed, fresh from a land rich in the lore of good old-fashioned hospitality, had felt his sensitive nature react to the more reserved attitudes of those new to him, he had only to remain long enough for cold weather to set in to know that the climate was even icier than the people.

"Brrr!" he murmured, teeth chattering, on the first stinging day of fall. "Why did Pop ever send me to this part of the country? This is terrible! I suppose I'll have to go out and get some heavy underwear and a ... what's that word?... yes--a _winter_ overcoat!"

Soft spoken, soft acting, with soft brown eyes and softer black hair, Reed Markham had slid softly into Seldon at the start of the school term. A naturally diffident youth, possessing none too much inclination to make advances, Reed had resented the failure of fellow schoolmates to approach him. On the few occasions that they had, his white teeth had shown, the soft eyes had warmed with a grateful smile and he had done his best to make friends. But a certain self-conscious something--a feeling that he was among fellows who thought differently and acted differently than himself--had always erected a barrier. Sadly, more often bewilderedly, Reed had realized, even as he was speaking to a northern schoolmate, that the youth was not opening up to him. He wondered not a little about this Mason and Dixon line business. Why should fellows be humanly different just because they lived in different parts of the country? Weren't they all Americans? Reed controlled a hot-tempered tongue with difficulty. His softness was a matter of breeding; his temper a matter of inheritance. A fellow must be the gentleman at all times--according to the best traditions of the Markham family. What Reed unfortunately could not know was that his Southern drawl and his obvious culture had been mistaken by his new acquaintances for a sense of superiority.

"Thinks he's too good for us!" Sam Hartley, star athlete of the school had declared, after sizing Reed up. "If this is a sample of Georgia crackers...!"

But Reed had merely felt, in his retiring way, that he--a stranger--should be welcomed by the residents of the north and made to feel at home. Down South, these same fellows would be greeted with unmistakable signs of hospitality, having only to reflect this warmth in return to be accepted in the community. For him, however, to make the first advances in this northern atmosphere, would be a breach of ... well ... call it 'etiquette'...!

The first snowfall Reed had ever witnessed commenced one frigid morning while he was in school. Great, crystal-shaped wet flakes began drifting down, much to his amazement and interest as he gazed from his desk out the window. Yes, he had heard of snow. He had even learned the dictionary definition for it--'ice in the form of white or transparent crystals or flakes congealed in the air from particles of water, and falling or fallen to the earth.' And here it was--in the process of _falling_! A quite strange and beautiful sight, Reed thought, recalling pictures he had seen in news reels of snow-covered country, snow battles and snow slides. There was something cotton-like in the flakes which nestled on the window sill and fluffily covered it. Reed felt a twinge in his throat that he knew to be homesickness.

At recess that day, the two hundred other fellows in Seldon Prep made a mad dash for the out-of-doors, plunging into the thickly falling snow and scooping up handfuls of it to pack into snowballs. Reed, standing timidly in the shelter of the doorway, watched a merry battle being waged, numerous snowballs landing with eye-smacking accuracy. He saw Sam Hartley, who seemed to be the ringleader, single-handedly stand off a concerted attempt to roll him in the snow, tripping up his adversaries, stopping them with whizzing snowballs and dodging back and forth across the campus, laughing the while.

"It looks like real sport," Reed admitted to himself.

He was not, however, invited to take part. In fact the fellows appeared oblivious that he was even looking on, having relegated him to the sidelines in their activities weeks before. To voluntarily enter into the fun, Reed could never do. Reaching down he caught up a bit of the snow and crushed it beneath his fingers, watching it melt against the warmth of his hand.

"Funny stuff!" he said.

At that moment the boisterously engaged Sam detected him and became suddenly inspired.

"Hey, fellows!" he shouted. "Look at Reed! He's not used to snow. Let's initiate him!"

And, before the lad from the South could retreat, the Northern army was upon him. Protesting, Reed was dragged out to the center of the campus where grinning youths grabbed up the wet snow and applied it none too gently to his face.

"That's the way--give him the old face wash!" laughed Sam. "How's that snow feel, Reed? Must be pretty dull down South in the winter time, eh?"

Reed's brown eyes flashed as he renewed his struggles to get free, snow in his hair and nostrils.

"And now some down his neck!" someone cried.

Reed felt his collar roughly pulled from the neck and a chilling, spine-tingling sensation as a cold, wet lump went sliding down.

"You guys let me go!" he gasped. "I can't stand this!... Oh!"

"You'll get accustomed to it!" Sam reassured. "This snow is just a starter. It usually gets three and four feet deep here."

Reed groaned inwardly. Snow might have been nice to look at but it was far from attractive or pleasant rubbed on his face and shoved down his back. If the fellows thought this was sport ... and intended to hand out such treatment through the winter ... well, he'd pack up his duds and beat it for home. He just didn't fit in this atmosphere anyway. His father should have known better than to send him to such a place.

"If Pop knew what I have to put up with!" Reed moaned to himself. "I'll have to write him about it. When he understands...!"

The letter of complaint to the elder Markham was dispatched special delivery that same night, after Reed had made a complete change of clothes and taken a hot bath for fear of possible consequences. To his relief, he contracted no cold, which indicated that he was hardier than he had supposed, having apparently stood the exposure to snow as well as his northern schoolmates.

"That's something, anyhow," he said, with a measure of satisfaction.

His father's reply, also by special delivery, proved disconcertingly unsatisfactory. Rather than sympathizing with his son's growing predicament and distaste for the north, the senior Markham wrote in part:

"I'm frankly ashamed of you, Reed. I spent three of the happiest
years of my late boyhood in the north. Did you ever stop to think
that it might not be the other fellows--but you?... Analyze
yourself, my boy, and see if you can discover what's wrong.

"What's a ducking or two in the snow? Haven't I seen you dive
unflinchingly into iced swimming pools? Give me a few dabs of snow
every time.

"I'm afraid the fellows are apt to put you down as a poor sport. I
must tell you, that is the main reason I insisted on your going
north to school ... you were becoming too self-centered. Your boy
friends here knew you too well. They were humoring your weaknesses.
Don't write me, son, unless it's about your triumphs. After all,
you know, you're a Markham ... and, while a Markham may have his
faults, he doesn't quit...."

Reed read and re-read what he considered to be an amazing letter. His apparently easygoing, soft-spoken father had suddenly spit fire. No mincing of words here--straight from the shoulder stuff. Even the South, it seemed, could be cold and unfeeling on occasion. Reed bit his lips and slipped the letter in a drawer of his desk.

"I won't write Pop at all," he said, with a flare of hurt Southern pride. "But I'll stick this out, somehow ... or die trying!"

* * * * *

Sam Hartley, of all the fellows Reed had so much as a speaking acquaintance with, became the most detested. As the winter tightened its grip and ice and snow sports were more and more indulged in, the taunting Sam seemed to personify the aggravation of the entire school in its relation to the student from the South.

"If he doesn't leave me alone pretty soon, something's going to happen!" Reed decided one day after submitting to considerable torment. Among other things he had been caught and forced to dive head first into a five foot drift, being first compelled to climb to the top of a fence post as the diving point. Such stunts as this but increased Reed's hatred for snow and further outraged his estimate of northern fellows.

"They're nothing but a bunch of roughnecks!" Reed denounced in private, "who take most of their delight in making me miserable! How I'd like to get even with the crowd of them!"

If wishes had been the father of thoughts, Reed would have been given the power to douse each of the two hundred fellows in the ice-caked water fountain which graced the campus. He would have shouted in fiendish delight at their discomfiture, quite willingly forgetting the supposed propensities of the gentleman. Even a gentleman, Reed had about made up his mind, could give vent, under due provocation, to an expression of righteous indignation. To make the instance more concrete, his patience was being tried to the point of exasperation.

"I wonder what I might be able to do to turn the tables?" Reed commenced to ask himself.

* * * * *

There is an old saying that "he who asks a question must find the answer" or, with equal aptness: "the answer must find him who asks the question." In this case the answer found Reed in the form of Seldon's Annual Winter Carnival.

"As you boys all know," announced the dean in chapel one morning, "this Carnival attracts the populace of the town and surrounding countryside. It has become an occasion to be anticipated. Particularly the spectacular ski jumping event down the now famous slide of Seldon Hill. This season, Sam Hartley, our ski jumping champion has assured me that he will be out to break his former record jump of one hundred and nine feet...."

The rest of Dean Hogart's announcement suddenly meant nothing to one Reed Markham who had been listening, up to this time, with lukewarm interest. Sam Hartley!... Sam Hartley!... Sam Hartley!... There didn't appear to be an activity worthwhile in which he did not prominently figure. Reed was sick of hearing the name mentioned. It was about time that Mr. Hartley was taken down a few pegs. He had the other fellows under his thumb. A suggestion from him and they'd all but tear the school down ... or turn upon the only student from the South to perpetrate further hazings. How they loved to pick on him! And how this Sam Hartley person enjoyed his leadership!

"I've dived from a sixty foot perch and I've sailed gliders," Reed considered, quietly. "I wonder if that's anything like the sensation of shooting through the air on skis?"

With the Carnival but one month away, the majority of the two hundred students went into training for the various sporting events to be run off. The slide, thanks to abundant snow, was in excellent condition and, the first night of practice, Reed waited in the clearing below the incline to watch a group of schoolmates, led by the one and only Sam Hartley, take the jumps.

"Wow!" cried a townsman as Hartley was seen to be whizzing down the slide, first to take-off from long-established precedent. "What form that baby has! Look at his forward crouch ... watch him straighten after he leaves the incline ... there he goes--soaring like a bird! Isn't that beautiful? Oh! Oh! He spoiled his landing ... took a header...."

"Yes, I see he did!" commented Reed, with a surge of satisfaction.

But Reed's blood had tingled at the sight of this magnificently built youth skimming down the slide. Whatever he might think of Hartley personally, he was forced now to concede that the fellow had a natural athletic grace which approached perfection. This was the second sport Reed had seen him in, the first sport having been football.

"This looks like his star event," he estimated. "And it looks like something I could do if I just had a chance to get in some practice without the fellows being wise...!"

Skiing, as the boy from the land of no snow was to discover, was not the easy sport he had imagined. Old Steve Turner, recreational director of Seldon Prep, had smiled as he had listened to Reed's "confidential" proposal.

"But why do you want to learn how to ski when the other fellows aren't around?"

The Southerner's face flushed. "Because I've been laughed at enough," he retorted, and felt sorry that he had even brought himself to speak to the Coach. Northerners were all alike--old or young.

"Perhaps," suggested Old Steve, observing the youth closely, "if you learned how to laugh at yourself before you tried to learn how to ski, you'd get along better."

"I guess," was Reed's rejoinder, "you folks up here have a different sense of humor than I have."

But the upshot of Reed's request that he be taught how to ski in private, was the granting of a concession by Coach Turner wherein Reed was to be excused from his last two study hours for skiing practice on the promise that he would make them up out of school.

"Winter sports are all new to me," Reed explained, his heart warming to the Coach's unexpected kindness. "The other fellows are taking advantage of it. But I've stood just about as much as I'm going to!"

"That's the spirit!" Coach Turner encouraged.

Reed Markham had always been a conundrum to Seldon's recreational director, he was secretly glad to see the boy venturing from his shell.

"You get some skis," the Coach proposed, "and I'll meet you for an hour every day on the old ball field." Then the Coach's face widened in a grin. "But, remember, son--you're setting out to learn a strictly northern sport. You can't take this skiing knowledge back to Georgia with you and do anything with it!"

"I know that!" flashed Reed, in a revelation of pent-up feeling. "But you Northerners think you're so darn good in everything ... I'd like to show you what I can do at your own sport!"

"Go to it!" Coach Turner invited, good-naturedly. "I'll help all I can!"

* * * * *

Curiosity of fellow students was aroused with Reed Markham's continued absence from the study periods at school and this curiosity was intensified when it was rumored around by townspeople that the Southerner had been seen in the company of Coach Turner, both with skis under their arms, hurrying for the enclosure of the ball field. As the gates were locked, it was impossible to see what was taking place within but the inference was evident.

"So Softy's going in for skiing!" Sam Hartley taunted one day as he encountered Reed on the campus.

The Southerner glanced coldly at the fellow whom he so thoroughly detested.

"Well, what of it?" he asked, controlling his smoldering temper with difficulty. This "Softy" nom de plume was a new one.

"Doesn't Softy know that skiing is a he-man's sport?" was Sam's kidding inquiry. "Softy doesn't like snow ... he hates to be rolled in it. What's he going to do when he gets his skis crossed going down hill? Or is he just going to ski on the level?"

"None of your business!" Reed retorted.

Sam laughed and the other fellows with him laughed. The idea of a Southerner ... this Southerner, anyway, taking up the manly sport of skiing! Of course the use of the snow was free.

"When you think you're good," Sam continued, "come over on the slide some night and I'll give you a few lessons on ski jumping."

The fellows winked at one another. If they could ever get Reed Markham on the slide it would be the greatest sport ever. There was no doubt about it--he would be a riot. They could just see him now, his first time down the snow chute, speeding up the incline and floundering off into space! What a howl!

"Yes," urged Tom Carrow, one of Sam's friends and closest rival in the ski jump. "Or, better yet--perhaps you can show _us_ something?"

"I doubt that," said Reed, bitingly, "you fellows know all that's to be known!"

And when he walked off, it was Sam who, looking after him, remarked: "There goes the queerest duck I've ever met. He's got spunk, though. Now what the deuce do you suppose he's taking up skiing for? With that superior attitude of his, I should think he'd consider skiing beneath him just because we go in for it!"

Efforts to discover Reed's possible intentions from Coach Turner proved unavailing.

"Reed is preparing for a climactic change which he expects is going to effect Georgia in the next half century," the recreational director explained, in all apparent seriousness. "When Georgia's first big snow comes, Reed hopes to lead his oppressed people from the wilderness...!"

"Applesauce!" branded the inquisitive group about the Coach.

"What if it is?" grinned the director. "I like _applesauce_."

* * * * *

Reed Markham's entry in the ski jumping contest proved the biggest sensation in the history of the school. Students just couldn't bring themselves to believe it although reports, the last week prior to the Annual Winter Carnival, told of Reed's going down the slide. While none of the school fellows were eye witnesses, some of the townspeople had paused in their day's occupations to watch Coach Turner and his lone pupil. They had seen the pupil take three successive tumbles--two at the take-off. "Nasty spills," as one townsman had characterized it. "If I'd taken any one of 'em I'd have stacked my skis and called it quits. But this kid picks himself up and crawls back up the hill to begin all over again. He listens pretty close to what his Coach has to say and watches this man Turner take a couple of jumps. Then down he goes again. You say he's a Southerner and he's been practicing skiing less than a month? Well, you'd never know it!"

Sam Hartley, meeting Reed after his name had been posted on the bulletin board as a competitor in the feature event, could not resist a crack. He noticed as he spoke that Reed was limping.

"Well, so you took my tip and tried out jumping? How'd you like it?"

"Nothing much to it," was Reed's laconic reply.

His superior way again.

"What do you mean, there's nothing much to it?" rejoined Sam, a bit peeved.

"Not after gliding," Reed explained, "it's rather tame."

"_Gliding?_" repeated a crowd of interested fellows. "Where did you ever do gliding?"

"Where do you suppose?" Reed asked, his soft eyes burning.

Later, through Coach Turner, who had gained a degree of Reed's confidence, astounded Seldon Prep schoolmates learned that this quiet mannered, self-effacing youth, had won the Southern States Gliding Contest with a flight of six hours and fourteen minutes ... and with a glider he had built himself. Sam Hartley, when he heard this, spent some uncomfortable moments running a finger underneath a tight collar band.

"How far has this _Softy_ ski jumped?" he asked the Coach, finally.

Upon this point, however, Coach Turner was non-communicative.