On and up _Uncle Sam_ went, plying his way sturdily, making a great noise and a terrific odor--dogged, determined and irresistible.
But the rider stirred impatiently.

Would they ever, _ever_, reach the top?
And when they should, there would be another hamlet in a valley, another bridge, more stupid people who could not speak English, more villages, more bends in the road, still other villages, and then--another hill.
It seemed to Tom that he had been travelling for ten years and that there was to be no end of it.

Ride, ride, ride--it brought him nowhere.
His right arm which had borne that tremendous strain, was throbbing so that he let go the handle-bar from time to time in the hope of relief.

It was the pain of acute tiredness, for which there could be no relief but rest.

Just to throw himself down and rest! Oh, if he could only lay that weary, aching arm across some soft pillow and leave it there--just leave it there.