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.