“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.