And Lef took the last tray! Frank chuckled when he saw that, for he felt that there was some hope at least that his neat little plan might not fall down in the start through the suspicion of the one at whom it was aimed.
“Bless the little innocent’s heart!” whispered Lanky in Frank’s ear.
“First of all, every fellow write his name on the tablet in front of his tray, so we’ll know which is which,” said Frank, earnestly.
“That’s so,” grinned Buster, “for I declare, if I’d want to stand sponsor for some of the paws other fellows own.”
“The sentiment is kindly returned, Buster. You are welcome to a monopoly of your own kind of paws. Now, what, Frank?” queried Seymour.
“All got your signature down? Well, pad the stuff until it’s just as smooth as the ice was last winter on the Harrapin, up near Rattail Island.”
“Or as smooth as Lanky here when he’s got his Sunday duds on,” suggested Buster, with a chuckle.
“Now be very careful how you press your right hand gently down in the clay on that side of the tray. Lift it out quietly, so as to leave a positive impression. Got that, everybody?” Frank went on, suiting the action to the words himself.
“I’m on, all right!” called out one.
“Me, too, and it’s just a dandy impression I made!” declared Buster, exultantly.