Mallory was about to sacrifice himself to save Marjorie, but she met the conductor's black rage with the withering contempt of a young queen: "I pulled the old rope. Whom did you suppose?"
The conductor almost dropped with apoplexy at finding himself with nobody to vent his immense rage on, but this pink and white slip. "You!" he gulped, "well, what in——Say, in the name of—why, don't you know it's a penitentiary offense to stop a train this way?"
Marjorie tossed her head a little higher, grew a little calmer: "What do I care? I want you to back up."
The conductor was reduced to a wet rag, a feeble echo: "Back up—the train up?"
"Yes, back the train up," Marjorie answered, resolutely, "and go slowly till I tell you to stop."
The conductor stared at her a moment, then whirled on Mallory: "Say, what in hell's the matter with your wife?"
Mallory was saved from the problem of answering by Marjorie's abrupt change from a young Tsarina rebuking a serf, to a terrified mother. She flung out imploring palms and with a gush of tears pleaded: "Won't you please back up? My darling child fell off the train."
The conductor's rage fell away in an instant. "Your child fell off the train!" he gasped. "Good Lord! How old was he?"
With one hand he was groping for the bell cord to give the signal, with the other he opened the door to look back along the track.
"He was two years old," Marjorie sobbed.