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.