“Oh, is that so?” observed Pep, wonderingly. “You mean Mr. Strapp.”
“Who’s he? No, I don’t know him. It’s Frank Durham whom I know, and Professor Barrington. Say, look at the fire, I reckon they’ll save the storage house yonder; but the garage and shed are gone. They’ve got it under control now. Heigho! There goes my lodging—my supper, too, if I don’t see Mr. Ridge, the man who runs the garage.”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Pep.
“I’ve been working there. It wasn’t much of a job; but you see I was waiting for Frank Durham—”
The speaker shook himself as if to get the chill out of his limbs. He pulled off his coat and began wringing out the soaked sleeves.
“Br-r-r!” he shivered, as the coarse cloth grazed a seared and blistered hand, “that hurts.”
Pep caught hold of the lad’s arm, his face full of sympathy.
“See here,” he said, “you’re hurt and chilled. You’re a hero; do you know it? You’ve saved Our beautiful playhouse——”
“Who played that hose?” demanded a hoarse voice, and looking up the boys faced a tall fireman wearing a silver badge of office on his white rubber coat.
“This boy did,” Pep hastened to reply.