CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
UP A TREE In military parlance, Tom had advanced only to be caught in a pocket.
There he sat, astride a large limb, hanging onto the heavy machine, which depended below him just free of the water.

He had, with difficulty, moved his painful grip upon a part of the machine's mechanism and succeeded in clutching the edge of the forward wheel.

This did not cut his hands so much, but the weight was unbearable in his embarrassed attitude.
Indeed, it was not so much his strength, which was remarkable, that enabled him to keep his hold upon this depending dead weight, as it was sheer desperation.

It seemed to be pulling his arms out of their sockets, and his shoulders ached incessantly.

At the risk of losing his balance altogether he sought relief by the continual shifting of his position but he knew that the strain was too great for him and that he must let go presently.
It seemed like a mockery that he should have gained the shore only to be caught in this predicament, and to see his trusty machine go tumbling into the water beyond all hope of present recovery, simply because he could not hang on to it.
Well, then, he _would_ hang on to it.