"He's a reporter."
"What's that?"
"Why, a reporter for the newspapers."
"I know nothing of the newspapers," said Helena, with an annihilating glance at the reporter. "My father does not permit me to read them."
The sergeant sprang to his feet. "This is no place for you," he muttered. "That's the best thing I've heard of Jack Belmont for some time. Here, come along, both of you."
He motioned to the girls to enter the passage, and turned to the officer. "Don't let anybody leave the room till I come back," he said; and the reporter, who had started eagerly forward, fell back with a scowl. "There's no 'story' in this, young man," said the sergeant, severely; "and you'll oblige me," with significant emphasis, "by making no reference to it."
"I think you're just splendid!" exclaimed Helena, as they went down the passage.
"Oh, well, we all like your father. Although it would be a great joke on him,—Scott, but it would! However, it wouldn't be any joke on you a few years from now, so I'm going to send you home with a little good advice,—don't do it again."
"But it's such fun to run to fires!" replied Helena, who now feared nothing under heaven. "We did have a time!"
"Well, if you're set on running to fires, go in your own good clothes, with money enough in your pocket to grease the palm of people like our friend Tim. Here we are."