‘Whew!’ said he, panting with excitement, as I came over to him.  ‘Reg’lar ol’ he one,’ he added, looking down at his boots.  ’Got away from me — consarn him!  Hed a leetle too much power in the arm.,

He emptied his boots, baited up and went back to his fishing.  As I looked up at him he stood leaning over the stream jiggling his hook.  In a moment I saw a tug at the line.  The end of his pole went under water like a flash.  It bent double as Uncle Eb gave it a lift.  The fish began to dive and rush.  The line cut the water in a broad semicircle and then went far and near with long, quick slashes.  The pole nodded and writhed like a thing of life.  Then Uncle Eb had a look on him that is one of the treasures of my memory.  In a moment the fish went away with such a violent rush, to save him, he had to throw his pole into the water.

‘Heavens an’ airth!’ he shouted, ‘the ol’ settler!’

The pole turned quickly and went lengthwise into the rapids.  He ran down the bank and I after him.  The pole was speeding through the swift water.  We scrambled over logs and through bushes, but the pole went faster than we.  Presently it stopped and swung around.  Uncle Eb went splashing into the brook.  Almost within reach of the pole he dashed his foot upon a stone, falling headlong in the current.  I was close upon his heels and gave him a hand.  He rose hatless, dripping from head to foot and pressed on.  He lifted his pole.  The line clung to a snag and then gave way; the tackle was missing.  He looked at it silently, tilting his head.  We walked slowly to the shore.  Neither spoke for a moment.

‘Must have been a big fish,’ I remarked.

‘Powerful!’ said he, chewing vigorously on his quid of tobacco as he shook his head and looked down at his wet clothing.  ’In a desp’rit fix, ain’t I?’

‘Too bad!’ I exclaimed.

‘Seldom ever hed sech a disapp’intment,’ he said.  ’Ruther counted on ketchin’ thet fish — he was s’ well hooked.’

He looked longingly at the water a moment ‘If I don’t go hum,’ said he, ‘an’ keep my mouth shet I’ll say sumthin’ I’ll be sorry fer.’

He was never quite the same after that.  He told often of his struggle with this unseen, mysterious fish and I imagined he was a bit more given to reflection.  He had had hold of the ‘ol’ settler of Deep Hole’ — a fish of great influence and renown there in Faraway.  Most of the local fishermen had felt him tug at the line one time or another.  No man had ever seen him for the water was black in Deep Hole.  No fish had ever exerted a greater influence on the thought’ the imagination, the manners or the moral character of his contemporaries.  Tip Taylor always took off his hat and sighed when he spoke of the ‘ol’ settler’.  Ransom Walker said he had once seen his top fin and thought it longer than a razor.  Ransom took to idleness and chewing tobacco immediately after his encounter with the big fish, and both vices stuck to him as long as he lived.  Everyone had his theory of the ‘ol’ settler’.  Most agreed he was a very heavy trout.  Tip Taylor used to say that in his opinion ’’twas nuthin’ more’n a plain, overgrown, common sucker,’ but Tip came from the Sucker Brook country where suckers lived in colder water and were more entitled to respect.