The Flying Stingaree Part 5

He throttled down and let the houseboat move slowly past the dock while he yelled a greeting to Steve Ames. There were no obstacles, and just enough room for the boat. He reversed his motors and threw his helm hard over, backing slowly into position. Scotty stood ready with a line, which he heaved to Steve. Then Scotty ran lightly to the foredeck and got the bowline ready. The houseboat nestled against the dock smoothly and Rick killed the motors. Then the three old friends were shaking hands and grinning from ear to ear.

"I've been watching since yesterday afternoon," Steve told them. "That storm last night worried me some. I didn't know whether you could ride it out or not."

"No trouble," Rick said. "We ran into Swamp Creek on the north side of the river and spent the night there." He watched the agent's face closely, 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 is watching 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 off guard. The agent had a deceptive appearance, athletic and good looking, with the forthright friendliness of a college undergraduate. But his trained eyes and ears missed nothing.

Steve's living room was attractive and comfortable, with bookshelves between the windows, a stone fireplace, a striped rug, and deep, restful chairs. There were lamps in exactly the right positions for reading.

The agent brought in a tray of coffee cups, with a pot of coffee and platter of doughnuts. "Even if you've eaten breakfast, you can manage a couple of these." He poured coffee and made sure the boys were comfortable, 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 cooked up. I was going to comment on the fis.h.i.+ng and hunting, and then ask--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 the Narrows and of the talk with Orvil Harris that morning. "So there's something fishy around here besides crabs and rockfish. We thought you might know," he concluded.

Steve shook his head with obvious admiration. "Leave it to the Spindrift twins! If there's a mystery afoot, you'll unearth it. Nope, lads. Never heard of your flying stingarees, or flying saucers, either. But that's not surprising. I'm down here mostly on weekends, sometimes with a friend or two, and the only local folks we see are at the store or gas station. Usually I'm in too much of a rush for small talk. I don't get the local papers, and when I listen to the radio or watch TV, it's either a Was.h.i.+ngton or Baltimore station. So I'm not in touch with local events."

"Anyway," Rick said, "stingarees don't fly."

Steve had been in the Virgin Islands, too, and had been involved in the adventure of _The Wailing Octopus_. "You found out that the octopus didn't wail," he reminded them, "but for a while it looked as though you'd found a new species. Maybe this is the same thing. What makes the stingaree 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 plans for fis.h.i.+ng or crabbing. I'm sorry, boys, but I'll be in and out of Was.h.i.+ngton for a few days. Got a hot case working that I can't leave for long."

The boys protested. "You deserve some vacation," Rick said hotly.

Steve held up his hand. "Whoa! I'm getting a vacation. This case should be settled in three or four days, and I'll be with you. Meanwhile, you move in here. You can drive me to the airport at Cambridge and pick me up when I come back. That will leave you a car, and you can use the motorboat for exploring or for fis.h.i.+ng. If you feel like skin diving, you can try for rock or hardheads off the northern tip of Taylors Island, right at the mouth of the river. Did you bring gear?"

"The whole set," Rick replied. "Lungs, compressors, guns, and even suits."

"You won't need suits. The bay is shallow and warm. At night you can relax right here. Plenty of books, TV, radio, or a chessboard. If it gets 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'll be back on the four-o'clock flight tomorrow afternoon, and, with luck, I won'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 we have sleeping bags if the weather is cold and cotton blankets when it's warm. Besides, housekeeping is easier on the boat."

Steve grinned. "I'll bet it is. If I know you two, you eat out of cans and never use a dish if you can help it. Your idea of was.h.i.+ng a coffee cup is to hold it under running water or to dip it in the bay. Wait until your mother and the girls join you. Life will undergo a drastic change."

"Don't rub it in," Scotty said ruefully. "Now, how about showing us over this estate of yours?"

Steve was pleased by the request. He obviously was proud of his creekside home, and with reason. There were fifty acres of land, mostly oak forest, with a private access road. Electric power came in from the public 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, the rivers and creeks were the highways, and the people traveled by boat.

You'll see old mansions fronting on the rivers here. The back doors face the roads. Water transport was the reason. The landed gentry had barges rowed by slaves. The poor folks rowed their own. Of course, there were plenty of sailing craft, too. There still are."

The creek in front of the house proved deep enough for swimming, and the three went for a dip. Rick tasted the water. It was salty, but not like the ocean. The backwaters of the bay were brackish, with low-salt content.

In the afternoon, the boys--somewhat reluctantly--got into what they referred to as "sh.o.r.e-going clothes." These consisted of slacks, sport s.h.i.+rts, light casual jackets, and loafers. Steve had a bag packed. They got into his car, a late-model convertible, and headed for Cambridge.

The plane, a small twin-engine craft, was late coming from Norfolk. By the time Steve was en route to Was.h.i.+ngton, it was nearly the dinner hour.

"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 the bay area. The folks eat well. How about some terrapin stew?"

"Crab imperial," Rick said again. "Baked in a crab sh.e.l.l. Lots of mayonnaise, paprika, and b.u.t.ter. I'll have a hearts of romaine salad on the side, with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Maybe tarragon vinegar. A few French fries, too. But first, a couple of dozen steamed clams. What do they call 'em here? Manos, p.r.o.nounced Man! Oh!"

"Just tell me where," Scotty begged. "Say no more."

"How about that place we pa.s.sed just before we got to Cambridge? The one built 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 driveway onto the highway. "We're on our own," he said. "It's up to us to entertain ourselves. But food isn't enough. Man cannot live by bread alone, the Scriptures say."

"I knew it." Scotty slumped down in the seat and sighed. "Since man cannot live by bread alone, his life must be filled with other things.

And guess what things!"

Rick smiled in antic.i.p.ation. "Uh-huh. Flying stingarees."