Rick shrugged. There was nothing he enjoyed as much as a mystery, but he wanted more information from Captain Michael O'Shannon before he agreed to anything. He had suspected that the old seaman knew more than he was saying. "We'll wait and see what develops," he said. "Okay with you?" "Suits me," Scotty agreed. The launch sped past Million Dollar Row, leaving behind a string of fishy waste as Cap'n Mike went on with his cleaning. By the time they were even with the town he had a handsome stack of white boneless fillets all ready for the pan. He brought them forward and took a seat next to Scotty. "Guess these'll taste mighty good. Got a little fresh bread and plenty of butter to go with 'em." Rick pointed to a large barnlike structure on the biggest pier in front of the town. "What's that?" "Fish market. That's where most of the trawlers load and unload. It's quiet now, because the fleet is out, but after dark when they come in, and early in the morning before they leave--that's the busiest place in these parts. I'll take you down there one of these times. Might be we'll find a couple of answers there." He pointed to an old windmill on the shore just below the town. "Steer for that." "Do you live there?" Scotty asked. "I live in a shack behind it. But there's a place to tie up. You'll see it in a minute." As the captain had said, there was a small dock in front of the windmill. Rick headed the launch for it and in a short time they were tied up. Behind the mill, which was an old ruin that had been used a half century before for grinding meal, was the road leading south from Seaford. Across the road was a weather-beaten fisherman's shack. Cap'n Mike pushed the door open. "It ain't no palace," he said, "but it's home and I'm proud to welcome you. Come on in." Inside, Rick stared around him with appreciative surprise. The little shanty was as neat and efficient as a ship's cabin. On one side was a tiny galley with everything neatly stowed. On the other was a built-in bunk. The walls had been papered with old charts, and he saw that most of them were of the New York-New Jersey area. A ship's lantern, wired for electricity, hung so low that it almost brushed Scotty's head. Ship models lined the mantel. Cap'n Mike was already at work in the galley. With no waste motion he produced a coffeepot, filled it with water, dumped in a handful of coffee and put it on the stove. He whisked a match across the seat of his pants and lit the kerosene. Then he produced a paper bag, shook in flour, salt and pepper, dumped in the fish and closed the bag, shaking it violently a few times with one hand while he produced a frying pan with the other. In a moment the pan was full of frying fish. A breadbox yielded a loaf of homemade bread. Before Rick and Scotty quite realized that lunch was ready, he had them seated at a table that folded down from the wall, with a smoking platter of fillets in front of them. "Eat," he commanded.