The Story of the White-Rock Cove

The Story of the White-Rock
Cove, by Anonymous

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story of the White-Rock Cove,
by Anonymous This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no
cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give
it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Story of the White-Rock Cove
Author: Anonymous
Release Date: August 26, 2007 [EBook #22404]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
STORY OF THE WHITE-ROCK COVE ***

Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
made using scans of public domain works in the International
Children's Digital Library.)

THE STORY OF THE WHITE-ROCK COVE.

With Illustrations.

LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1871.

[Illustration: WILLIE AND ALECK AT THE FOOT OF THE WHITE
ROCK.]

CONTENTS
I. LONG AGO AT BRAYCOMBE
II. ALECK'S WELCOME
III. A WHOLE HOLIDAY
IV. THE RIDE TO STAVEMOOR
V. SHIP-BUILDING
VI. THE SCHOONER-YACHT
VII. THE MISSING SHIP
VIII. ANOTHER SEARCH
IX. SORROWFUL DAYS
X. SUNDAY EVENING
XI. THE WHITE-ROCK COVE AGAIN

THE STORY OF THE WHITE-ROCK COVE.

CHAPTER I.
LONG AGO AT BRAYCOMBE.
The Story of the White-Rock Cove--"to be written down all from the
very beginning"--is urgently required by certain youthful petitioners,
whose importunity is hard to resist; and the request is sealed by a rosy
pair of lips from the little face nestling at my side, in a manner that
admits of no denial.
* * * * *
"From the beginning;"--that very beginning carries me back to my own
old school-room, in the dear home at Braycombe, when, as a little boy
between nine and ten years old, I sat there doing my lessons.
It was on a Thursday morning, and, consequently, I was my mother's
pupil. For whereas my tutor, a certain Mr. Glengelly, from our nearest
town of Elmworth, used to come over on Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays for the carrying forward of my education; my studies were, on
the other days of the week, which I consequently liked much better,
conducted under the gentle superintendence of my mother.
On this particular morning I was working with energy at a rule-of-three
sum, being engaged in a sort of exciting race with the clock, of which
the result was still doubtful. When, however, the little click, which
meant, as I well knew, five minutes to twelve, sounded, I had attained
my quotient in plain figures; a few moments more, and the process of
fours into, twelves into, twenties into, had been accomplished; and just
as the clock struck twelve I was able to hand up my slate triumphantly
with my task completed.
"A drawn game, mamma!" I exclaimed, "between me and the clock;"
and then with eager eyes I followed hers, as she rapidly ran over the
figures which had cost me so much trouble, and from time to time
relieved my mind by a quiet commentary: "Quite right so far;--No
mistakes yet;--You have worked it out well."

Frisk, the intelligent, the affectionate, the well-beloved companion of
my sports, and the recipient of many of my confidences, woke up from
his nap, stretched himself, came and placed his fore-paws upon my
knees, and, looking up in my face, spoke as plainly as if endowed with
the capacity of expressing himself in human language, to this
effect:--"I'm very glad you have finished your lessons; and glad, too,
that I was able to sleep on a mat in the window, where the warm
sunshine has made me extremely comfortable. But now your lessons
are done, I hope you'll lose no time, but come out to play at once. I'm
ready when you are."
And Frisk's tail wagged faster and faster when my mother's inspection
of my sum was concluded, so that I could not help thinking he must
have understood her when she said,--"There are no mistakes, Willie;
you have been a good, industrious little boy this morning; you may go
out to play with a light heart."
I did not need twice telling, but very soon put away all my books and
maps, and the slate, with its right side carefully turned down, that it
might not get rubbed, wiped the pens, placed my copy-book in the
drawer, and presented myself for that final kiss with which my mother
was wont to terminate our proceedings, and which was on this occasion
accompanied by the remonstrance that I was getting quite too big a boy
for such nonsense.
Then at a bound I disappeared through the window, which opened on
the lawn, and let off my pent-up steam in the circumnavigation of