Part 4

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.