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”....