CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
"TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH" Whether merely from the change of an eighth of an inch or so in its hold upon the rim, or because his palm fitted better around the slight alteration of curve, Tom was conscious of the slightest measure of relief.
As quickly as he dared (for he knew that any sudden move would be fatal), he reached behind him with his left arm and, groping for the stub of limb, tore away from it the twigs which he knew would form an obstacle to placing the wheel rim with its network of spokes over this short projection.
The dead soreness of his straining shoulder blade ran down his arm, which throbbed painfully.

His twitching, struggling fingers, straining against the weight which was forcing them open, clutched the rim.

They were burning and yet seemed numb.

Oh, if he could only wipe his palm and that rim with a dry handkerchief! He tightened his slipping fingers again and again.

The muscles of his arm smarted as from a blow.