90 ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS 
land hamlets and farms and even a few in the 
valleys came to know him by sight, and because. 
he was now so large, and Bill Snydeyr’s pet boast, 
he was universally called Old Bill. When any- 
body saw him, he would call up Snyder on the 
telephone, and tell the place and hour. Snyder 
kept these records, and that was how he knew that 
on some days Old Bill would travel as much as 
thirty-five miles—that is, he was reported from 
points thirty-five miles apart; he probably actu- 
ally covered considerably more ground. As he 
came to fear man less and less, Old Bill grew 
more and more bold, and, a north woodsman 
would say, less and less moose-like. One of his 
favorite tricks, when he happened to be crossing 
some back roadway up in the hill country and 
chanced to hear or scent humans approaching, 
was to stop in his tracks, head erect, antlers 
spreading into the air, and look toward the sound 
or scent. Presently, perhaps, around the bend 
in the road would come a man in a wagon, or two 
women on foot. If it was the former, the horse 
would probably get up on his hind legs, or start 
backing, much to the discomforture of the driver, 
