'Tie him up in the yard then.'
'No. He must go out. Dogs are not permitted on the grounds.'
Macquarie rose slowly to his feet, shut his agony behind his set teeth, painfully buttoned his shirt over his hairy chest, took up his waistcoat, and staggered to the corner where the swag lay.
'What are you going to do?' they asked.
'You ain't going to let my dog stop?'
'No. It's against the rules. There are no dogs allowed on the premises.'
He stooped and lifted his swag, but the pain was too great, and he leaned back against the wall.
'Come, come now! man alive!' exclaimed the doctor, impatiently. 'You must be mad. You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let the wardsman help you to undress.'
'No!' said Macquarie. 'No. If you won't take my dog in you don't take me. He's got a broken leg and wants fixing up just―just as much as―as I do. If I'm good enough to come in, he's good enough―and―and better.'
He paused awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on.
'That―that there old dog of mine has follered me faithful and true, these twelve long hard and hungry years. He's about―about the only thing that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursed track.'
He rested again; then he continued: 'That―that there dog was pupped on the track,' he said, with a sad sort of a smile. 'I carried him for months in a
