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Updated: May 4, 2025
Rick cut corners, knowing he had enough water under the keel, heading directly for the creek entrance. Scotty came back to the cockpit and joined him. "Do you suppose Orvil Harris will be around?" Rick shrugged. "It's pretty late for a crabber. He's probably gone by now." "I wonder if he'll ever see any flying stingarees come out of the creek." Rick shook his head.
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.
Rick could not make out details or landmarks, but Harris knew the way as well as he knew the inside of his own boat. Rick enjoyed the coolness of the night, and even the heavy scent of the salted eel the crabber used as bait. Harris tapped each boy on the shoulder in turn, and pointed. They could barely make out the entrance to the creek.
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.
Scotty stood up on the seat, stepped to the bow, and found the small, four-pronged anchor. He dropped it into the water, let out line, and tied the line fast to the bow cleat. "Okay, Steve." The three got aboard the crab boat as Harris started his engine. "Make yourselves comfortable," the crabber invited. "There's a pair of glasses on the engine box."
He lifted his mask and surveyed the scene. Orvil Harris was still crabbing. Rick could see the boat, but the angle was wrong for him to see the crabber at work. He turned slowly in the water, and saw Scotty. The runabout was floating, motor off, about a mile away. He lifted an arm. The glint of first sunrise turned the lenses of Scotty's binoculars into a crimson eye, and Scotty waved back.
If the mystery of those flyin' stingarees gets solved, we may find out what happened to Cousin Link. I'll help if I can." "You know these waters pretty well," Steve returned. "Is there any way of getting to Calvert's Favor, or within watching distance, without going up this creek?" The crabber reached over and turned a switch, cutting his engine. "There is, for that boat you're in.
Where sports are a main issue, an entire building is often devoted to the comfort of the participants. We have in mind the commodious and exceptionally delightful arrangements made for the comfort and pleasure of those playing court tennis in a large and architecturally fine building erected for the purpose on the estate of the Neville Lyttons, Crabber Park, Poundhill, England.
"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.
"It's Orvil's," Rick said. "But where is he?" "Get aboard," Scotty suggested. "Okay." Rick stood up and timed his motion with the slight roll of both boats, then stepped into the crabber. Orvil's crab lines were coiled neatly in their barrels, the stone crab-line anchors and floats were stacked along the side of the boat.
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