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 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 Shore 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 cockpit, 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 shine, 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."
"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 shore.
"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 anchored. 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. Washington 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 fishing
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!"