Even the Greek firemen sweated and cursed, though they were used to that environment.

An ordinary man might have succumbed simply to that fiery, foul atmosphere.

It was like a glimpse of hell, dark, hopeless.
It was not the heat or the atmosphere which troubled Harrigan, but his hands.

His skin was puffed and soft from the scrubbing of the bridge.
Now as he grasped the rough wood of the short-handled scoop the epidermis wore quickly and left his palms half raw.

For a time he managed to shift his grip, bringing new portions of his hands to bear on the wood, but even this skin was worn away in time.