“Nobody could write a book at nine,” he said with finality.
“Daisy could, and did,” declared Alice.
“Nobody could get it published, anyway,” sneered the wooden man. “Of course, anybody could write one.”
“And she had it published, and here it is!” cried Alice, triumphantly. She snatched a book from a long counter, and presented it to her companion.
The wooden man cautiously took it, turned it over, and handed it back.
“Where does it say she is only nine years old?” he demanded.
“In the preface, of course,” answered Alice. “She’s older now, but she was only nine when she wrote it.”
She whirled over the leaves until she found the place.
“There it is! Sir James Barrie himself says so, in the preface.”
“Humph!” said the wooden man. “He probably wrote it himself. And he wasn’t nine when he wrote it, either, although he’s pretty childish, at that. He’s writing introductions, now, for anybody.”