"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."