THE ODYSSEY OF OLD BILL 93 
Peering through the bushes, Snyder beheld the 
giant first baseman of the Berkshire Tigers, the 
dauntless hero who feared neither man nor devil, 
astraddle the limb of a chestnut tree, which he 
grasped with his arms as though it were his long- 
lost sweetheart, while below him, horns almost 
touching his dangling boots, stood Old Bill, 
coughing and pawing the ground, and lowering 
and then tossing up his fifty pounds or more of 
pronged antlers. 
Snyder emerged from the bushes, shouting 
with laughter. Tim saw him and redoubled his 
stream of adjectives. 
“Hi, call off your blasted pet poodle,” he 
shouted. “ You'll fine me two hundred and fifty 
dollars if Oi shoot him, and he'll kill me if Oi 
don’t, so’s it'll cost me three hundred dollars for 
me funeral. Where do Oi get off, you blasted 
old ——” 
“Whoa, son!” Snyder laughed. “ You don’t 
get off, apparently.” 
“Say, this limb’s gettin’ sharp, Oi tell you. 
Shoot the darn thing, quick, or Oi’ll fall off.” 
“ Shoot a tame moose! ” cried Snyder. 
