CHAPTER IV
Steve's Place
A red buoy marked the entrance to Martins Creek. Rick, at the helm,passed it close to starboard and headed into the center of the creek.Past the wooded shores 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. "Thefirst house with a dock."
"Use the binoculars," Rick suggested. "We should be able to see it whenwe round the next bend."
The houseboat passed the first house, a small, modern dwelling set closeto the water. A rowboat was hauled up on the shore. The creek rounded awooded promontory and the next house came into view. Steve's!
Rick's eager eyes saw an attractive farmhouse, set well back from thewater in a frame of willows and white oaks. There was an acre of greenlawn in front of the house, the lawn running down to the water's edge. Asmall dock jutted out into the creek. Tied to one side of it was asturdy runabout with an outboard motor.
"Pretty," Scotty approved.
Rick nodded. The farmhouse was half frame, half white brick, with aslate roof. It was apparently only one story high. On impulse, Rick gavea long blast on the boat horn.
The front door opened and a man looked out, then walked swiftly down tothe dock, waving. The boys waved back.
"Get the lines ready," Rick requested. "I'll back in."
He throttled down and let the houseboat move slowly past the dock whilehe yelled a greeting to Steve Ames. There were no obstacles, and justenough room for the boat. He reversed his motors and threw his helm hardover, backing slowly into position. Scotty stood ready with a line,which he heaved to Steve. Then Scotty ran lightly to the foredeck andgot the bowline ready. The houseboat nestled against the dock smoothlyand Rick killed the motors. Then the three old friends were shakinghands and grinning from ear to ear.
"I've been watching since yesterday afternoon," Steve told them. "Thatstorm last night worried me some. I didn't know whether you could rideit out or not."
"No trouble," Rick said. "We ran into Swamp Creek on the north side ofthe river and spent the night there." He watched the agent's faceclosely, but Steve didn't react.
"Come on in," Steve invited. "Coffee's on. Had your breakfast?"
"We ate before hauling anchor," Scotty said, grinning.
Steve Ames knew the boys well. "Something's up," he stated. "Rick iswatching me like a suspicious sand crab and your tone of voice is wrong,Scotty. Coffee first, then talk. Come on."
Rick shook his head in admiration. It was impossible to catch Steve offguard. The agent had a deceptive appearance, athletic and good looking,with the forthright friendliness of a college undergraduate. But histrained eyes and ears missed nothing.
Steve's living room was attractive and comfortable, with bookshelvesbetween the windows, a stone fireplace, a striped rug, and deep, restfulchairs. There were lamps in exactly the right positions for reading.
The agent brought in a tray of coffee cups, with a pot of coffee andplatter of doughnuts. "Even if you've eaten breakfast, you can manage acouple of these." He poured coffee and made sure the boys werecomfortable, then sank into an armchair and looked at them quizzically.
"All right. Out with it."
Rick chuckled. "You're too sharp," he accused. "We had a plan all cookedup. I was going to comment on the fishing and hunting, and thenask--very innocently--when the season for flying stingarees opened."
The agent's eyebrows went up. "Flying stingarees? Swimming ones, yes.Open season any time. Flying ones, no. What is all this?"
"Rick saw one last night in the storm," Scotty explained.
"That's not all," Rick added. He told of their conversation at theNarrows and of the talk with Orvil Harris that morning. "So there'ssomething fishy around here besides crabs and rockfish. We thought youmight know," he concluded.
Steve shook his head with obvious admiration. "Leave it to the Spindrifttwins! If there's a mystery afoot, you'll unearth it. Nope, lads. Neverheard of your flying stingarees, or flying saucers, either. But that'snot surprising. I'm down here mostly on weekends, sometimes with afriend or two, and the only local folks we see are at the store or gasstation. Usually I'm in too much of a rush for small talk. I don't getthe local papers, and when I listen to the radio or watch TV, it'seither a Washington or Baltimore station. So I'm not in touch with localevents."
"Anyway," Rick said, "stingarees don't fly."
Steve had been in the Virgin Islands, too, and had been involved in theadventure of _The Wailing Octopus_. "You found out that the octopusdidn't wail," he reminded them, "but for a while it looked as thoughyou'd found a new species. Maybe this is the same thing. What makes thestingaree fly?"
"It would be fun to find out," Scotty admitted.
"You'll have time to make a start, and I won't be in the way with plansfor fishing or crabbing. I'm sorry, boys, but I'll be in and out ofWashington for a few days. Got a hot case working that I can't leave forlong."
The boys protested. "You deserve some vacation," Rick said hotly.
Steve held up his hand. "Whoa! I'm getting a vacation. This case shouldbe settled in three or four days, and I'll be with you. Meanwhile, youmove in here. You can drive me to the airport at Cambridge and pick meup when I come back. That will leave you a car, and you can use themotorboat for exploring or for fishing. If you feel like skin diving,you can try for rock or hardheads off the northern tip of TaylorsIsland, right at the mouth of the river. Did you bring gear?"
"The whole set," Rick replied. "Lungs, compressors, guns, and evensuits."
"You won't need suits. The bay is shallow and warm. At night you canrelax right here. Plenty of books, TV, radio, or a chessboard. If itgets cool, there's wood for the fireplace."
"Sounds good," Scotty agreed. "But we wanted you with us."
"I will be. Before the weekend."
"When do you have to leave?" Rick asked.
"Three this afternoon. I have an evening meeting at headquarters. I'llbe back on the four-o'clock flight tomorrow afternoon, and, with luck, Iwon't have to go again. If I do, it will be only for a day."
"Okay," Rick said reluctantly. "We'll settle in, but we won't move in.We'll sleep on the boat. No need to use up your linens and stuff when wehave sleeping bags if the weather is cold and cotton blankets when it'swarm. Besides, housekeeping is easier on the boat."
Steve grinned. "I'll bet it is. If I know you two, you eat out of cansand never use a dish if you can help it. Your idea of washing a coffeecup is to hold it under running water or to dip it in the bay. Waituntil your mother and the girls join you. Life will undergo a drasticchange."
"Don't rub it in," Scotty said ruefully. "Now, how about showing us overthis estate of yours?"
Steve was pleased by the request. He obviously was proud of hiscreekside home, and with reason. There were fifty acres of land, mostlyoak forest, with a private access road. Electric power came in from thepublic power lines, but he had a gasoline generator in case of failure,and his own artesian well. He explained:
"The house has been completely remodeled, but it's really quite old.When it was built, there was only a wagon track. In those days, therivers and creeks were the highways, and the people traveled by boat.You'll see old mansions fronting on the rivers here. The back doors facethe roads. Water transport was the reason. The landed gentry had bargesrowed by slaves. The poor folks rowed their own. Of course, there wereplenty of sailing craft, too. There still are."
The creek in front of the house proved deep enough for swimming, and thethree went for a dip. Rick tasted the water. It was salty, but not likethe ocean. The backwaters of the bay were brackish, with low-saltcontent.
In the afternoon, the boys--somewhat reluctantly--got into what theyreferred to as "shore-going clothes." These consisted of slacks, sportshirts, light casual jackets, and loafers. Steve had a bag packed. Theygot into his car, a late-model convertible, and headed for Cambridge.
The plane, a small twin-engine craft, was late
coming from Norfolk. Bythe time Steve was en route to Washington, it was nearly the dinnerhour.
"Eat out?" Rick suggested.
"Absolutely. More crab cakes?"
Rick shook his head. "Crab imperial. Maybe some steamed clams."
"You're making me hungry," Scotty protested. "I'll say one thing for thebay area. The folks eat well. How about some terrapin stew?"
"Crab imperial," Rick said again. "Baked in a crab shell. Lots ofmayonnaise, paprika, and butter. I'll have a hearts of romaine salad onthe side, with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Maybe tarragon vinegar. A fewFrench fries, too. But first, a couple of dozen steamed clams. What dothey call 'em here? Manos, pronounced Man! Oh!"
"Just tell me where," Scotty begged. "Say no more."
"How about that place we passed just before we got to Cambridge? The onebuilt like a Colonial mansion."
"The Bay Gourmet," Scotty remembered. "Okay. You're driving."
Rick put the convertible in gear and moved out of the airport drivewayonto the highway. "We're on our own," he said. "It's up to us toentertain ourselves. But food isn't enough. Man cannot live by breadalone, the Scriptures say."
"I knew it." Scotty slumped down in the seat and sighed. "Since mancannot live by bread alone, his life must be filled with other things.And guess what things!"
Rick smiled in anticipation. "Uh-huh. Flying stingarees."
The Flying Stingaree: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story Page 4