stone, and I was afraid that he would ask me
more questions about it, sooner than bear which I was ready to see him
throw the piece of rock out of the window, when, if he threw it far
enough, the chances were that it would go over the cliff and fall upon
the beach.

Just as I feared, the questions came as he put on his glasses and
examined the fragment more closely.

"Where did you get this, Sep?" he said--"on the beach?"

"No, father, up on this side of the Gap."

"Whereabouts?"

"About three hundred yards from Uggleston's cottage, and half-way up the
slope, where the rocks stand up so big on the top."

"Hah! Yes, I know the place. It was lying on the slope, I suppose?"

"Well, ye-es, father."

"Humph, strange!" he muttered. "There can't be any metals there.
Somebody must have dropped it."

I hesitated. I wanted to speak out, but I was afraid, for I did not
know what he would say if he heard that we had blown up one of the rocks
with gunpowder, and sent all those stones hurtling down the side of the
cliff.

"Yes," continued my father, "somebody must have dropped it. A good
specimen--a very good specimen indeed."

Just then he raised his eyes, and caught me gazing at him wistfully.

"Hallo!" he said, "what does that mean? Why are you looking so serious
and strange?"

"Was I, father?"

"Yes, sir: of course you were. No nonsense. Speak out like a man, and
a gentleman. Not quite the same thing, Sep, for a gentleman is not
always a thorough man; but a thorough man is always a gentleman. Now,
what is it?"

I did not answer.

"Come, Sep," he said sharply, "you're getting a great fellow now, and I
want you, the bigger you grow, the more frank and open. I don't want
you to grow into one of those men who look upon their father as someone
to be cheated and blinded in every way, instead of as their truest and
firmest friend and adviser. Now, sir, you have something on your mind."

"Yes, father," I said slowly.

"Hah! I thought as much. In mischief yesterday?"

"I'm afraid so, father."

"Well, out with it. You know my old saying, `The truth can be blamed,
but can never be shamed.'"

"Yes, father."

"Well, I'm sure my boy could not bear to be shamed."

"Oh, no, father."

"Of course not," he said quietly. "And I'm sure you've got manly
feeling enough not to be afraid of being blamed; so out with it, sir,
and take your punishment, whatever it is, as the son of a sailor
should."

"Yes