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"It went right over the boat. I think it hit the upper rail. We'll check later. But it wasn't a flying saucer. I'm sure of that." "What was it?" Scotty demanded. "A flying stingaree!" Orvil Harris, Crabber Rick Brant awoke to the sound of a motor. For a moment he lay quietly in his bunk, listening. The sun through the cabin windows told him it was early in the morning.
There would be waggons waiting to convey them up-inland to Squire Tresawna's pleasure-grounds to high shaven lawns whereon, for once in the year, they could enjoy themselves running about upon the level. And the wastage at these particular points of his tailoring persists when he grows up to manhood; for a crabber sits much on the thwart of a boat and drives with his heels against a stretcher.
They kept going until the scrub concealed them, listening for sounds from the creek. There was the beat of a motor. It sounded like Orvil's boat, and Rick thought it probably was. But would Orvil continue crabbing? Again the doubt came. Had the crabber tried to kill them? He couldn't believe it. The boys stopped and slipped off their fins. "Lead on," Rick said softly. "Okay.
Even Rupert Gunning, after his brief and unsympathetic survey, had said she had good legs; in fact, he had only been able to crab her for the length of her back, and he, as Fanny Fitz reflected with a heat that took no heed of metaphor, was the greatest crabber that ever croaked. "What are you asking for her?" she demanded with a sudden access of decision. There was a pause.
From the skipper of a Dogger Bank fishing-smack to the stoker of a Cardiff tramp, from Margate 'longshoreman to a crabber of the Stilly Isles, he embraces them all in a lusty affection. And this not merely out of his own love of salt water but because his diagnosis reveals the gentleman in them more surely than in the general run of his wealthier patients.
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."
"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 cockpit, sipping steaming coffee. The crabber talked willingly about his business. "Not much profit," he reported, "but it beats workin'."
Now he had shown up again, on the Eastern Shore. "A crime syndicate chief, a crooked scientist, flying stingarees, an old mansion, a peculiar antenna, and a missing crabber. What does it add up to?" Rick demanded. Scotty shrugged. He didn't answer. There was no answer yet. On the Bottom There were three wooden cases stored in the full-length closet in the houseboat cabin.
Scotty backed in with the runabout and Rick helped him secure the smaller boat to the side of the crabber. "Bumpers on the houseboat," Rick called. "Under the cockpit deck." Steve hurried to get them, and they were placed between the crab boat and the runabout to prevent rubbing. The boys climbed to the pier and faced their friend. "We found the boat headed into the bay," Rick said grimly.
He made it fast around a cleat. "Up early," he greeted them. "Come to watch me crab?" "Not exactly," Rick returned. "Mr. Harris, this is Mr. Ames." The crabber reached out a muscular hand and Steve stretched to meet it. "Mighty pretty place you have on Martins Creek," Harris said. "Admired it many's the time." "Thanks," Steve returned. "Be glad to have you drop in any time." "I may do that.
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