Jane was in that railroad accident, a reporter came to our house to interview her, and he asked questions just as that Mr. Downing—was that his name?—did. He took the number of the house, too."
"Oh mercy!" gasped Mabel, turning suddenly from white to a deep crimson. "If those green apples get into the paper I'll be too ashamed to live! Oh girls! Couldn't we stop him—couldn't we—couldn't we pay him something not to?"
"It's probably in by now," said Marjory, teasingly. "They do it by telegraph, you know."
"He couldn't have been a reporter," protested Mabel. "Reporters are always young and very active so they can catch lots of scoons—no, scoots."
"Scoops," corrected Jean.
"Well, scoops. He was kind of slow and a little bit bald headed on top—I noticed it when he stooped for his hat."
"Well, anyway," comforted Jean, "let's
