Others of the boys began to gather around, attracted by the animated discussion, just as Frank had been hoping they would. He had noted the fact that Lef Seller was in the place, not doing much in the way of exercise, for he had been debarred from competing in the track team or taking part in any athletic rivalry for the balance of the term, and could only look on and make sarcastic remarks. But, somehow, there seemed to be an attraction to Lef in the person of Frank Allen. Perhaps it may have been on a par with the fatality that draws the silly moth to the flame of the candle. He had tried to wrong the other terribly, and, the plot having failed, he seemed eager to catch anything that was said concerning the matter by Frank or his chums. So, among the rest, he lounged over to the spot where Frank sat, upon the edge of a little table, idly swinging his leg to and fro. Apparently Frank never paid the slightest attention to the presence of Lef; but, truth to tell, he was keenly alive to the fact. “What’s all this talk about over here?” demanded Seymour, pushing into the group. Lanky took it upon himself to explain. “Why, Frank was springing a joke on the lot of us. He says that our two hands are totally unlike--that if an impression was made of each fellow’s right and left, he’d never dream they belonged to the same body. What do you think of that, Rod. It’s going some, for Frank, eh?” The captain of the nine looked thoughtful. “You may smile at it, fellows, but really I’m inclined to side with Frank. I’ve read some strange things along that line lately, and believe there’s considerable truth in it,” he marked, soberly. At this Lanky laughed jeeringly. He had been taken into the scheme far enough by Frank to know how to play his part. And out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lef Seller had hung to the outskirts of the crowd, listening with some show of interest to what was said. Lef, as a rule, had been frowned upon of late when he came around, and as no one noticed him now, he felt encouraged to remain. No boy likes to feel that he is an outcast among his schoolmates. “Prove it, Frank!” scoffed Lanky. “Yes, make your assertion good, old chap!” echoed Buster, encouragingly. “Well, why not? And here’s a splendid chance to make the test,” declared Frank, jumping down from his seat. He strove to act as though badgered into the exposition of his belief, when to tell the actual truth, the stage had all been set beforehand for just this opening. “What’s he going to do, boys?” asked Jack Eastwick. “Oh, I get on to his curves. See there, on that window seat are a dozen little boxes. You know what they contain, fellows?” cried Lanky. “The modeling clay Mr. Oswald uses in his geographic lectures!” said Tom Budd, as he placed his hands on the table Frank had just vacated, gave a hitch to his lower extremities, and after a whirl through the air like a cart wheel, once more calmly alighted on his feet.