The Flying Stingaree Part 4

"Flyin' catfish," Harris said scornfully. "You swallow that yarn?"

"Didn't you?" Rick asked quickly.

"Not any. That why you picked this creek to anchor in when there's so many nicer ones upstream?"

Scotty explained. "We ducked in here to get out of that squall last night. We didn't exactly pick it. Afterward, we realized where we were."

"Why don't you believe the story about Link Harris?" Rick wanted to know.

"Oh, I believe some of it." The crabber took out a blackened, much-used pipe and stoked it. "Link disappeared, all right. We found his boat yonder." He pointed to a spot on the marshy sh.o.r.e.

"He didn't drown?" Rick pressed.

Harris shrugged. "Not very likely. We'd have found his body. Way the tides were that day, there was no ebb tide strong enough to carry a body out into deep water. The creek was clear. We'd have seen him."

"Then where did he go?" Scotty demanded.

"Can't say. When he disappeared, I went to Baltimore and bought every book on flyin' saucers I could lay hands on. All I know for sure is that what folks have been seein' around here ain't saucers. Shape's wrong, color's wrong, and they don't move the way the books say."

"Would you say they were diamond-shaped, dark in color, with tails?"

Rick asked carefully.

Harris stopped with a match halfway to his pipe. "I would. For sure.

When'd you see one?"

"Last night. Right here."

"Mmmmm." Harris got the pipe going well and threw the match into the water. "I've never seen one close. Hoped to. That's why I crab this creek. Would you say it was big enough to catch a man?"

Rick shook his head. "I didn't get a very long look, but I'd say definitely not. Unless it had some kind of powerful motor I couldn't see or hear."

Harris puffed silently.

"Any theories?" Scotty asked.

"Not one. I'm barren as the flats in winter."

Rick finished his coffee and put the mug down on the cabin top. "Would Link have gone away of his own accord?"

"I wouldn't think so." Harris accepted more coffee from Scotty. "But let's keep one foot anch.o.r.ed. Who knows what's in a man's mind? Any man?

Sometimes there's a deep channel full of black water, and nothin' to make you suspect it. Maybe Link did walk off. It would be the easiest explanation--if you hadn't seen somethin' last night. I was about to give up. Now I'm not so sure. What you saw came from somewhere, and it was goin' somewhere. If we could find out whence and whither, so to speak, we might have an idea of what happened to Link."

Harris drew erect. "Speakin' of whence and whither, what's your destination?"

"We're visiting a friend," Rick answered. "He lives on Martins Creek on the south side of the river. Name is Ames."

Harris nodded. "I know who he is. Was.h.i.+ngton man. Has a summer place."

"You've met him?" Scotty inquired.

"So to speak. We've howdy'd, but we haven't shook."

Rick smothered a grin at the picturesque phrase.

"I'd better get back to crabs," Harris said. "I'm mighty grateful for the hospitality. You get to town, look me up, and give me a chance to return it." He shook hands with both boys, pulled his boat alongside, and stepped aboard. In a short time, he was running the crab lines again.

"Interesting," Rick said noncommittally.

Scotty chuckled. "Here we go again. Sherlock Brant's got his teeth into a nice fat mystery. Good-by vacation."

Rick had to grin. "It's not that bad," he said defensively. "I just thought we might sniff around a little."

"That's what I thought you thought. Come on, Hawkshaw. Let's get some bacon and eggs on the fire and haul anchor."

"Okay." Rick checked the chart. "We're only about twenty minutes' run from Steve's place. If we eat here, he won't think he has to feed us breakfast."

"Considerate," Scotty agreed, grinning. "I can see you now. You walk up the dock, shake hands, and say, 'Glad to see you, Steve. Don't bother about breakfast. We've eaten. By the way, have you had any trouble with flying stingarees?'"

Rick grinned back. "Not bad predicting. Actually, I was going to wait for the right opportunity, then say, 'Wonderful hunting and fis.h.i.+ng country, Steve. By the way, when does the hunting season open for flying stingarees?'"

Scotty laughed. "Okay. Only let's get going. I want to see how he answers!"

CHAPTER IV

Steve's Place

A red buoy marked the entrance to Martins Creek. Rick, at the helm, pa.s.sed it close to starboard and headed into the center of the creek.

Past the wooded sh.o.r.es of the creek entrance, he could see fields, obviously tended, and more woods.

"Steve's place should be the second on the left," Scotty said. "The first house with a dock."

"Use the binoculars," Rick suggested. "We should be able to see it when we round the next bend."

The houseboat pa.s.sed the first house, a small, modern dwelling set close to the water. A rowboat was hauled up on the sh.o.r.e. The creek rounded a wooded promontory and the next house came into view. Steve's!

Rick's eager eyes saw an attractive farmhouse, set well back from the water in a frame of willows and white oaks. There was an acre of green lawn in front of the house, the lawn running down to the water's edge. A small dock jutted out into the creek. Tied to one side of it was a st.u.r.dy runabout with an outboard motor.

"Pretty," Scotty approved.

Rick nodded. The farmhouse was half frame, half white brick, with a slate roof. It was apparently only one story high. On impulse, Rick gave a long blast on the boat horn.

The front door opened and a man looked out, then walked swiftly down to the dock, waving. The boys waved back.

"Get the lines ready," Rick requested. "I'll back in."