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.”