The White Rocks were a series of huge boulders and flat stones which extended into the lake not far from the base of Round Mountain.
Led by Phil Levins, the boys were soon making their way from rock to rock. But Tom Clifton finally balked. The distance which separated him from the next was a little more than he cared to cross.
"Better not go out any further, fellows," he cautioned.
"Wait here, Tom. Your legs ain't quite long enough," replied Sam, as he made a flying leap.
Phil Levins, like most of the village boys, had often been out on the Rocks, and knew the easiest way, but Sam Randall drew many a long breath during the time that he was jumping and scrambling from one to another.
"Christopher! Isn't it terrific!" he cried, when they finally came to a pause on the smooth, flat top of a rock near the outer end.
The water foamed and boiled against its sides; miniature whirlpools formed here and there, while long, rippling swells with a glassy surface separated them from the boulders beyond.
Above all other sounds was the steady roar of the torrent thundering toward the barrier. As if angry at resistance, it lashed itself into a fury, beating and splashing against the sullen cliff. Hurled back, its blue-green waves, patched with foam, paused for an instant before rushing in mad triumph toward the gorge of Canyon River, about fifty yards ahead.
Sam Randall was fascinated at the spectacle. From where they stood, it was possible to see down-stream for a considerate distance, and the boys eagerly turned their gaze in that direction, vainly hoping that the "Dauntless" might be somewhere in sight.
"Well, what do you think of it now?" asked Phil Levins, at length.