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!

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!