Half-Past Seven Stories

by Robert Gordon Anderson

But "No," the Queen replied angrily, "I played that long before you were born. And my honorable ancestors played it before me."

Again Marmaduke felt in his pockets, hoping to find something that would help him out. He drew forth a penny, a fishhook, a dried worm, two marbles, and--there--just the thing--the game of Authors, which Aunt Phrony had given him for his birthday.

"I'll tell you what," he told the Queen, "let's play Authors. There's nothing better than that."

"Authors, authors--" the Queen replied, tapping her foot impatiently, "what are they?"

"Oh, people who write books and stories an' things. It's very nice."

So he explained to the Queen all about them, about Longfellow and Whittier and all the rest. He really didn't know so very much about them, you see, but he had played the game so often that he knew the cards and names "'most by heart."

"Gracious!" exclaimed the Queen--in Chinese, of course. "Whittier and Longfellow--what pretty names! But haven't you got Confucius there, somewhere?" Confucius, you see, was a man who wrote in Chinese long years ago, and he was one of her pet authors.

Marmaduke shuffled the cards all over, but couldn't seem to find that name.

"I guess he's been lost," he said politely, so as not to hurt her feelings and lose his head, "but I'll tell you what"--he added, pointing to a picture of Dickens--"we can call this man Confoundit just as well."

"Confucius, not Confoundit," the Queen corrected him crossly, then she looked at the card. "That'll do, I suppose. That author has a kind face and a real long beard. It's not half bad."