Tom had tried this at Temple Camp with a visiting scout's baggage chest.

With both hands he had been barely able to lift it by its strap.

With one hand he had been able to _budge_ it for the fraction of a second.

But there had been no overmastering incentive--and no reserves called up out of the depths of his soul.
He could feel his breast palpitating against the limb, drawn tight against it by the dead weight.

Yet he could not put his desperate purpose to the test.
And so a second--two, three, seconds--were wasted.
"I won't let go," he muttered through his teeth.