Boys Like Mysterious Stories

Mr. Melville Dale, Jimmy’s uncle in America, often sent books and magazines to his niece and nephew. Polly liked the magazines very much. There were lots of pictures there.

Jimmy liked the books. They were full of interesting and thrilling stories. Uncle Melville always read detective stories and bought lots of them.

All the boys in the neighborhood liked them, as well as Jimmy, Sam, and Hugh, and they knew almost all of them by heart. Their favorite writer was Conan Doyle, who wrote about his friend Sherlock Holmes, a famous detective.

Sam Christine could tell the stories best of all: he would open his eyes very wide and, stretching out his hand, would say things that little Lily was so much afraid of.

Lily could not take her eyes off Sam’s face, though it was dark under the trees and she saw only his white teeth. She trembled and moved nearer to Jimmy.

The Carrot was afraid too, but he did not want to show it. So he said very loudly:

“Go on, Sam! Tell us the end!”

And Sam went on. But once, when Sam was telling one of his stories, a strange boy joined the children. Nobody knew his name, and nobody had seen him before. The new boy said that he did not like Sam’s stories. He said that he had read many stories by Conan Doyle, and they were much more interesting than the story Sam had told. The last story he had read was especially thrilling.

“What is it about?” Sam asked the stranger.

“It’s a story about a family mystery,” the boy answered. “If you like, I can tell you all about it.”

“Oh, do tell us!” the children cried.

“No, I can’t now. It’s very late and I must go home.”

“Where do you live?” Sam and Hugh asked.

“I live far from here,” the boy answered.

“When will you come here again?” the children cried. “We want to hear your story.”

“I’ll come here in two or three days,” the boy said and ran away without telling them his name.

Four or five days had passed before the new boy reappeared among the children again. He looked very mysterious. He was holding something under his arm.

“What have you got under your arm?” Jimmy asked.

“Where have you been all this time?” Hugh asked. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” Sam asked.

“I was very busy,” the boy answered. “I was writing a story.”

“A story! Can you write stories? Are you a writer?” the children shouted, jumping around him.

“Well, I don’t know whether I am a writer or not, but still I’ve written a thrilling story. Here it is!” the boy said and showed them his parcel.

The children surrounded the new writer, their eyes and mouths wide open.

“Shall I read it right now?” the boy asked.

“Yes, yes, read it, read it now! We are all waiting,” the children shouted.

“No, no,” Hugh cried, “wait a bit! Let us go to our garden! There is a very quiet spot there where nobody will bother us.”

“Let’s go!” the children cried.

In a few minutes all of them were sitting under some big bushes in the farthest end of Hugh’s garden.

“Shall I begin?” the new boy asked.

“Do begin, we are ready!” Hugh said.

And the boy began reading his story. It was a very interesting story and everybody listened to it with great attention. At last the new boy stopped reading.

“Is that all?” Jimmy asked.

“No, it’s only the end of the first chapter,” the boy answered.

“When will you come again?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. I must write my second chapter. I think I’ll finish it in five or six days,” the boy answered.

“Will you tell us your name?” Hugh asked.

“No, I won’t. Writers never tell their real names,” the boy said.

“What may we call you then? the children asked. You must have some name!”

“You may call me ‘The Mysterious Stranger’,” the boy said and disappeared behind the garden wall.