Mose Tupper had never had his hook in the ‘ol’ settler’ and would believe none of the many stories of adventure at Deep Hole that had thrilled the township.

‘Thet fish hes made s’ many liars ‘round here ye dimno who t’ b’lieve,’ he had said at the corners one day, after Uncle Eb had told his story of the big fish.  ’Somebody ‘t knows how t’ fish hed oughter go ‘n ketch him fer the good o’ the town — thet’s what I think.’

Now Mr Tupper was an excellent man but his incredulity was always too bluntly put.  It had even led to some ill feeling.

He came in at our place one evening with a big hook and line from ‘down east’ — the kind of tackle used in salt water.

‘What ye goin’ t’ dew with it?’ Uncle Eb enquired.

‘Ketch thet fish ye talk 5’ much about — goin’ t’ put him out o’ the way.’

‘’Tain’t fair,’ said Uncle Eb, ’its reedic’lous.  Like leading a pup with a log chain.’

‘Don’t care,’ said Mose, ‘I’m goin’ t’ go fishin t’morrer.  If there reely is any sech fish — which I don’t believe there is — I’m goin’ t’ rassle with him an’ mebbe tek him out o’ the river.  Thet fish is sp’llin’ the moral character o’ this town.  He oughter be rode on a rail — thet fish hed.’

How he would punish a trout in that manner Mr Tupper failed to explain, but his metaphor was always a worse fit than his trousers and that was bad enough.

It was just before haying and, there being little to do, we had also planned to try our luck in the morning.  When, at sunrise, we were walking down the cow-path to the woods I saw Uncle Eb had a coil of bed cord on his shoulder.

‘What’s that for?’ I asked.

‘Wall,’ said he, ‘goin’ t’ hev fun anyway.  If we can’t ketch one thing we’ll try another.’

We had great luck that morning and when our basket was near full we came to Deep Hole and made ready for a swim in the water above it.  Uncle Eb had looped an end of the bed cord and tied a few pebbles on it with bits of string.

‘Now,’ said he presently, ‘I want t’ sink this loop t’ the bottom an’ pass the end o’ the cord under the driftwood so ’t we can fetch it ‘crost under water.’

There was a big stump, just opposite, with roots running down the bank into the stream.  I shoved the line under the drift with a pole and then hauled it across where Uncle Eb drew it up the bank under the stump roots.

’In ’bout half an hour I cal’late Mose Tupper’ll be ‘long,’ he whispered.  ‘Wisht ye’d put on yer clo’s an’ lay here back o’ the stump an’ hold on t’ the cord.  When ye feel a bite give a yank er two an’ haul in like Sam Hill — fifteen feet er more quicker’n scat.  Snatch his pole right away from him.  Then lay still.’

Uncle Eb left me, shortly, going up stream.  It was near an hour before I heard them coming.  Uncle Eb was talking in a low tone as they came down the other bank.

‘Drop right in there,’ he was saying, ‘an’ let her drag down, through the deep water, deliberate like.  Git clus t’ the bottom.’