“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!”