"Know where we are?" Rick asked casually.
"Sure. We're – " Scotty stopped. "For Pete's sake! I didn't make the connection at first. We're in Swamp Creek, where that man got snatched by a flying saucer!"
"Right. Worried?"
Scotty grinned. "Any flying saucer that can navigate in this weather is welcome to what it gets. How's the anchor?"
"Holding," Rick said. "I hope." He looked out the galley window and watched the shore. It changed position as the boat moved, but that was only because the houseboat was swinging at anchor. "Seems all right," he added.
Ten minutes later coffee was ready. The boys sat at the dinette table and sipped with relish, listening to the storm outside. It seemed to be increasing in intensity.
"Picking up," Scotty said. "The guidebook wasn't kidding when it said 'sudden and severe summer storms lash the bay.'"
"Wonder how long they last?" Rick asked.
"Hard to say. Perhaps an hour."
The houseboat jerked suddenly. Rick jumped to his feet. "Did you feel that?"
The boat heeled under the lash of wind. Rick peeled off his sweat shirt. "Feels as though the anchor dragged a little. I'm going out and let out more scope. We can't take a chance of drifting in this wind."
"I'll go," Scotty offered.
"No. I put the anchor down. It's my fault if it slips. Stand by."
Rick pulled the cabin door open and winced at the blast of raindrops, like heavy buckshot on his face and body. For a moment he hesitated, then realized the sooner he got it over with, the better. He hurried to the catwalk and swung down it, meanwhile estimating his distances. He could let out another fifty feet of anchor line without getting the boat too near shore. The more anchor line out, the better the anchor could hold.
He made the forward deck and looked around, realizing that the wind direction had changed and that the blast was now coming down the creek, swinging the houseboat around. That probably was why the anchor had shifted. He knelt and took the line in his fingers. It no longer seemed to be slipping, but it was better not to take a chance. He unloosed the half hitches that held it to the cleat, threw off all but one figure-eight turn, and let the anchor line run out slowly. When he estimated about fifty feet had run through, he put on more figure eights around the cleat, then dropped half hitches over to secure the line. Once more he reached out and held the taut line. It didn't seem to be slipping. He pulled on it hard, and felt the boat move. The anchor was in solidly this time.
Rick turned and started back to the catwalk, rain lashing his back. Sudden instinct made him whirl around in time to see something huge and black rushing at him out of the storm. Rain blurred his vision. He had a swift impression of a black figure, shaped like a diamond, coming at him. He threw himself flat on the foredeck. There was a rustling sound overhead, and something clanged off the cabin top's aluminum rail. Rick was on his feet again. Heart pounding, he looked around. There was nothing but rain and wind. He stood upright and looked across the cabin top. For an instant he glimpsed a black object above the canopy over the rear cockpit, then that, too, was lost in the rain.
Shaken, Rick made his way back to the cabin, entered, closed the door, and leaned against it. Scotty looked up, and was on his feet in an instant.
"Rick! What happened? You're white as a sheet!" he exclaimed.
"Saw one," Rick managed. He was still shaking. "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!"
CHAPTER III
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. The sunlight still had the red quality of early sunrise. He watched the light shift as the houseboat swung on its anchor.
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 shirt. 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 cockpit 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 shore marsh, a bluejay called, its voice like a squeaky hinge.
The motor sound was distant now, and the shore 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. Amidships was a single man, clad in overalls and a denim shirt. 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 cockpit rail. "There's the end of his line, over near shore. He'll pass 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