The Flying Stingaree Part 3

By the time the storm last night had ended, darkness had set in, and it was only sensible to turn on the anchor light and remain in the Swamp Creek cove for the night. In spite of his unsettling experience, Rick and Scotty had not been deeply disturbed. Neither he nor Scotty believed in flying saucers--at least, not in saucers that kidnaped people, and the object Rick had seen had not been saucer-like. It had been shaped like a stingaree.

Stingarees don't fly.

Rick smiled to himself. During another vacation, skin diving in the Virgin Islands, he and Scotty had proved that octopuses don't wail. But if stingarees don't fly, he asked himself, what looks like a stingaree and _does_ fly?

He realized suddenly that the sound of the motor was louder once again.

Someone investigating the houseboat? He swung out of bed. The cool air of morning was in sharp contrast to the warmth of his sleeping bag.

Quickly he slipped into shorts and sweat s.h.i.+rt. As he opened the cabin door, he heard the slap of bare feet on the deck behind him and turned to see Scotty regain his balance after dropping from the upper bunk.

"Go ahead," Scotty called. "Be right with you."

"Okay." Rick stepped out into the c.o.c.kpit and glanced around. It was a lovely morning. The ever-present birds of the Chesapeake area were already active. A huge blue heron stepped daintily in the shallows like a stilt walker afraid of falling over. The heron was looking for small fish or anything that moved and was edible. An osprey, the great fish hawk of the bay region, swooped overhead on lazy wings, sharp eyes alert for small fish near the water's surface. In the pine woods behind the sh.o.r.e marsh, a bluejay called, its voice like a squeaky hinge.

The motor sound was distant now, and the sh.o.r.e upstream blocked Rick's view. Then, as he watched, a long, low, white motorboat came into sight.

Its bow was vertical, its sides low. There was no cabin. Amids.h.i.+ps was a single man, clad in overalls and a denim s.h.i.+rt. The man was surrounded by bushel baskets, and he held a long-handled crab net made of chicken wire.

Rick watched with interest. On one side of the boat was a roller that extended out over the water. A heavy cord came out of the water, crossed the roller, and dipped back into the water again. Every few feet there was a chunk of something on the cord, apparently bait. As Rick watched, a piece of bait came up with a crab clinging to it. The net swooped and the crab was caught, pulled inboard, and dumped into a bushel basket with one fluid motion. The crabber never took his eyes from the cord.

The boat continued in a straight line.

Scotty came out on deck and joined Rick. The boys watched in silence while the man caught a dozen crabs, then picked one from the bait and flipped it into the water.

"Too small, I guess," Rick commented.

"Must be. Where does the line go?"

Rick pointed. A gallon oilcan, painted blue and white, bobbed gently in the creek. "That's where he's heading."

The crabber approached the can, then flipped the line off the roller.

Using a lever next to him, he turned the boat and headed toward another can some distance away. A quick pull with a boat hook and the line attached to the can was placed over the roller. Crabs appeared, holding onto the bait as the boat moved along the new line. Rick counted. The crabber was getting about one crab for every three baits.

Scotty leaned over the c.o.c.kpit rail. "There's the end of his line, over near sh.o.r.e. He'll pa.s.s close to us."

"That's why the motor sounded loud," Rick guessed. "He moves from one line to another. Last time he came by the boat he woke me up."

"Same here." Scotty nodded.

The crabber moved methodically, his boat proceeding at a steady pace toward the houseboat. As he came abreast, he called, "Mornin'."

The boys returned the greeting.

"Looks like a good catch," Scotty called.

"Fair. Only fair." The crabber scooped up a huge blue crab from almost under their noses and went on his way.

"If it's only fair now, what must it be like when it's good?" Rick asked with a grin.

"Two crabs on every hunk of bait," Scotty said. "You count crabs and I'll make coffee."

"That's my boy," Rick said approvingly.

Scotty went into the cabin and left Rick watching the crabber. Rick tried to figure out all the details. After a short time he concluded that the floats were attached to anchors of some kind. The anchors kept the crab line on the bottom, except when it was running over the roller.

He also saw that there were no hooks or other gadgets. The crabs were caught simply because they refused to let go of the bait.

The aroma of coffee drifted through the cabin door, and Rick wondered why it is that coffee, bacon, and other breakfast scents are so much more tantalizing on the water.

The crabber approached on the leg of his journey closest to the boat. On impulse, Rick called, "Come aboard and have some coffee?"

The man grinned. Without missing his smooth swing at a rising crab, he called back, "Don't mind. That coffee smell was drivin' me nigh crazy.

Be back when I finish this line."

Rick leaned into the cabin. "Company for coffee, Scotty."

"Heard you. Got another cup all ready. In here or out there?"

"Out here. It's too nice to be inside."

In a few moments the motorboat, which turned out to be as long as the houseboat, came alongside. Rick took the line thrown by the crabber and made it fast so that the crab boat would drift astern. He looked into the boat with interest. Covers on four baskets showed that the crabber had collected four bushels of crabs. A fifth and sixth basket were half full, one with very large crabs, the other with smaller ones.

The crabber swung aboard. He was of medium height, with light-blue eyes set in a tanned and weather-beaten face. Rick guessed his age to be somewhere in the mid-forties. He smiled, showing even teeth that were glaringly white in his tanned face.

"Name's Orvil Harris," he announced.

"Rick Brant." Rick shook hands. "That's Don Scott coming out with the coffee."

Scotty put down the coffeepot and mugs he was carrying and shook hands.

"Call me Scotty, Mr. Harris. How do you like your coffee?"

"Strong and often," Harris replied. "Plain black. Call me Orvil."

Like all visitors, Harris was interested in the houseboat. "Been hopin'

for a look inside," he said in his slurred Eastern Sh.o.r.e accent. "Almost gave up hope. You get up late, seems like."

Rick glanced at the sun. "Must be all of seven o'clock. You call that late?"

"Been here since four. It's late for me."

Rick showed Orvil Harris through the boat, then sat with him and Scotty in the c.o.c.kpit, sipping steaming coffee. The crabber talked willingly about his business.

"Not much profit," he reported, "but it beats workin'."

After hearing about a crabber's life, rising in the middle of the night, rain or s.h.i.+ne, working crab lines and hauling baskets around until noon, Rick wondered what Harris would consider hard work. Having spent a dollar for six steamed crabs a few nights before, he was also amazed to hear the crabber report that he received only six dollars a bushel for "jumbo" crabs and three dollars a bushel for "culls," or medium ones.

All under four and a half inches from tip to tip were thrown back.

Rick waited a courteous length of time before asking the question that had been on his mind since hearing the crabber's name. "Are you any relation to Link Harris?"

"Second cousin." The blue eyes examined him with new interest. "Where'd you hear about Link?"

"At the Narrows," Scotty replied. "We were talking about flying saucers."