“Matter—what matter?” demanded Lef, shivering at the same time.
Frank stepped aside, and in so doing exposed upon the table one of the little trays used by Mr. Oswald when instructing his pupils in the art of the mapmaker.
“That’s your tray, Lef; it has your own signature on the tag to make certain.”
“Oh! I don’t deny it. But what under the sun are you driving at, Frank Allen? I’m beginning to believe that all the praise that’s been showered on the mighty factor in saving that punk game last Saturday has gone to his head, and that you’re getting ratty.”
“Wait and see. There’s the imprint of your left hand as plain as day. You heard me say that no two fingers in the world would make the same impression, or thumbs either for that matter. Well I’m going to show you that the same thumb can and always will make a similar impression; and many a rascal has gone to jail just because of it.”
With a quick motion Frank flirted a paper before the astonished eyes of the boy who stood there. Lef turned as white as a ghost, and had to grit his teeth to keep from having them chatter with his sudden fright.
Had the ground opened and threatened to swallow him just then he could hardly have been more astonished and dismayed. It is the feeling of the rogue whenever his own handiwork arises unexpectedly to confront and confound him.
“I guess you know that paper, Lef, all right,” said Frank, meaningly.
Lef pretended to lean forward to read it, but in reality he was trying to shield his face until he could screw up a little of his ordinary courage and brazen assurance.
“Rats!” he exclaimed at length, though his voice trembled almost piteously, and instead of the customary fire in his eyes they seemed to be filled with a dumb entreaty; “I see that you’ve got the paper the professor said came to him. What of it? I ain’t got anything to do with that, and nothing you can say will make anybody believe it, Frank Allen!”