lean horse standing, but he didn't seem to like to come through the
slip-rail o' the paddock fence.

"In coorse I couldn't stand gaping there all day, so I went and
stooped down to the man, who was lying flat on his face, with his
arms straight out. He wasn't sensibleless (Palmer's favourite word
for senseless), for he opened his eyes, and said, "For God's sake,
mate, take me in." "So I will, mate," I makes reply "and welcome
you are. Can you get on your legs, think you?" With that he groans
awful, and says, "My legs is friz." Well, I looks at his legs, and
sees he was dressed in what had been good moleskins, and high jack
riding-boots, coming up to his knees; but sure enough they was as
hard as a board, and actially, if you'll believe me, ma'am, there
was a rim o' solid hice round the tops of his boots. As for
standing, he couldn't do it: his legs was no more use to him than
they was to me, and he was a tall, high fellow besides. Cold as it
was, I felt hot enough by the time I had lugged that poor man inside
my place, and got him up on my bunk. He could speak, though his
voice was weak as weak could be, and he helped me as well as he
could by catching hold with his arms, but his legs was stone dead.
I had to get the tommy (_anglice_-tomahawk), and _chop_ his boots
off, and that's the gospel truth, ma'am. I broke my knife, first
try, and the axe was too big. He told me, poor fellow, that two
days before, as he was returning from prospecting up towards the
back ranges, his horse got away, and he _couldn't_ catch him. No:
he tried with all his might and main, for in his swag, which was
strapped to the D's of his saddle, was not only his blanket, but his
baccy, and tea, and damper, and a glass o' grog. The curious thing,
too, was that the horse didn't bolt right away, as they generally
do: he jest walked a-head, knowing his master was bound to follow