Part 3

"Look--he's written his name 'Scotty'!" exclaimed an amazed spectator as Melville's star finished his complicated twistings and turnings. "Marvelous!"

"Let's see you write _your_ name!" called Scotty.

"You think you're clever!" flashed a greatly chagrined Frederick. "I'll show you...!"

But the referee's whistle screeched, announcing time for the starting of the game.

"Just a second!" Frederick pleaded as he turned toward the referee.

"Off the ice!" waved the referee, "all you fellows who aren't in the opening line-up!"

"Well, see you again some time!" razzed Scotty.

A thoroughly upset fancy skating champion found his way to the bench and slumped down upon it. He had not cared what might be thought of him as a hockey player but to be humiliated on his own rink in his own sport ... this was terrible!

It was half way through a blistering first period before Coach Howard sent Frederick in, along with two other spares, to replace Kirkwood's regular forward wall. The score was nothing to nothing and the hot pace of the battle had the crowd on edge.

"Hello--if here isn't Frederick, the Great!" kidded Scotty. "Here's hoping he's as good a hockey player as he is a fancy skater! If he is, it'll be duck soup!"

Frederick glared. This Scotty had the habit of 'riding' his opponents, all those who let themselves be 'ridden'. And Frederick was taking the bait nicely.

"You'll never get past centre ice!" Scotty predicted, as Frederick captured the puck a few seconds later.

Kirkwood's substitute left wing said nothing but skated back around his own cage and came out on the other side with a burst of speed. He put more behind his drive than he had ever displayed in a game and the crowd cheered hopefully. At mid-ice a crafty Scotty waited, grinning as he saw his own left wing force Frederick toward the centre, away from the sideboards.

"He's my meat!" muttered Melville's star, and hooked out his stick as Frederick tried desperately to pass him. The crook of the stick stole the puck so cleanly from Frederick that he did not realize it was gone for several flashing strides. When he did pull up short, it was to hear the crowd roaring as Scotty, on a scintillating dash into Kirkwood territory, had fired a shot at goal-keeper Chub Roland. Chub fended the puck off with his stick but Scotty, following up, clubbed the disc viciously and sent it flying past Chub into the net for the first goal of the game!

"There, Freddy!" taunted Scotty, as the Melville stands went crazy with joy. "That's how to play hockey!"

A hot retort was on the tip of Frederick, the Great's tongue when Coach Howard hastily threw his regular forward wall back into the game.

The first period ended with Melville leading, one to nothing, and Rand Downey, whose contempt for the fancy skater exceeded that of his team mates, had certain things to say to Frederick in the locker room.

"You let that baby talk you out of a score," he branded. "He got you so up in the air you didn't know whether you had a puck or an egg at the end of your stick."

"He won't get the puck away from me again!" Frederick replied.

"He won't have to," snapped Rand. "All that Melville bunch has to make is one goal to win their games. Here we are, playing our fool heads off and you...!"

"Oh, shut up!"

Kirkwood's right wing stared at Frederick unbelievingly.

"What did you say?"

"I said shut up!" repeated Frederick, a look in his eyes that Rand had never seen before.

Fellow team mates gasped their amazement. Was Frederick actually commencing to come to life?

"How's your ankle?" the coach asked Don Keith, concernedly.

"Holding up okay," answered Kirkwood's veteran. "That Melville defense is the toughest I ever went up against. We never got a puck near their cage this period. They broke up practically every formation at mid-ice. And that guy Scotty is seemingly in every play! Fred wasn't to blame for that score.... Scotty went through the entire team...!"

The second period was a torrid repetition of the first except that neither six was able to score. Frederick twice got in the battle for three minutes each, renewing his feud with Scotty but accomplishing nothing. Instructions were to play defensive hockey while the spares were in. Should Melville jam through another goal, Kirkwood's every chance would be gone. Now there was a glimmering possibility of a tie resulting could Kirkwood get the puck past goalie Pete Hardy who was fighting to establish a season's record of not having been scored upon.

"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."

* * * * *