"Oh, no; not yet! Oh, but we sitted the other way in the real railway!" tearfully remonstrated the passenger, who had been settled by the guard on the banister face downwards.
"Can't help that, ma'am. It's the way we run trains. We gen'lly do things different from the foreigners. Now then, I'll tie your little girl on your back with her sash-ends, and, if you hold on tight, you will both get to the bottom all right!"
And she might have got to her destination in safety had the passenger been a boy accustomed to banister sliding instead of a weak, fragile little girl.
"Ready below there?" shouted down the guard. "There, ma'am, I've telegraphed down that you're coming!"
Mark's hand let go the wildly clinging passenger. A green flag was waved. A shrill whistling rang through the house.
The funicular was off!
Then came faint, muffled cries of terror: a swish through the air as the two passengers came sliding down: a louder shriek: and, lastly, a thud on the hall floor that made the hearts of the waiting group of boys stand quite still for a second or two.
At their feet was a huddled heap of blue frock and white pinafore, over which trailed a wisp of long fair hair. The heap was perfectly still, perfectly silent.
"Is she—is she——?" Mark's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and refused to finish the question when, tearing down the staircase, he reached the hall, his face livid under the red hair. Oliver was stooping over the senseless little figure, touching with frightened fingers now the little face, then the still small hands.