ots, 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 wherever he led, for in coorse he had hopes to catch him every
moment. That ere brute, he never laid down nor rested,--jest kep slowly
moving on, as if he was a Lunnon street-boy, with a bobby at his heels.
Through creeks and rivers and swamps he led that poor fellow. His boots
got chuck full o' cold water, and when the sun went down it friz into
solid hice; and that misfortnit man he felt his legs--which was
his life, you see, ma'am--gradially dyin' under him. Yet he was a
well-plucked one, if ever there was such a party on this airth. He told
me he had took _five_ mortial hours to come the last mile, the horse
walkin' slowly afore him, and guiding him like. And how do you think he
did it, with two pillars of hice for legs? Why he lifted up just one leg
and then the other with both his hands, and put them afore him, and took
his steps that way."

Here honest Ned, his eyes glistening, and his ugly little face glowing
with emotion through its coating of sunburn, paused, as if he did not
like to go on.

I was more touched and interested than I could avoid showing, and
cried, "Oh, _do_ tell me, Palmer, what became of the poor fellow! Did he
die?"

Ned cleared his throat, and moved so as to get between me