 Tarzan of the 8th brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Riceboro's thrilling book. Tarzan watches the result of his terrifying call of warning. He sees Sheeter's glossy form slink behind the cover of a spreading mimosa bush. Then turns his head to find Clayton staring up at him in utter amazement. Tarzan regards the young Englishman curiously. Grinchfully poised on the tip of a swaying limb, the 8th man watches the color flood back into Clayton's face. The jungle, which at momentarily stills at Tarzan's warning cry, stirs again to life. From the solid mass of tall trees comes the swirl piping of jungle birds, intermittently broken by the deeper notes of the larger birds. Half-hidden by the dense verger, man who is a monkey, chatters and scolds. The high sun, filtering through the lacy maze of vivid dreams, floods the clearing with flashes of gold. Tarzan's bronze body melts into the shadows. With the inhuman stills born of years of habit, he drops limb by limb, branch to branch, behind the dense screen of topic leaves, and glams on the most deadened grounds behind Clayton. The Englishman wheels around, reaches for his rifle, stops when he sees Tarzan. Thanks, old man. It's certainly saved my life. Tarzan says nothing. Curiously, he examines Clayton's clothing. He runs his hand over the woolly texture of the cacophony shirt. Clayton turns to place the 8th man. Tarzan grips him by the shoulder, and the Clayton's mind flashes the memories of the warning note came to the door of the hut. You must be Tarzan's game. Tarzan pays no attention, and always examining Clayton's boots. I know. I say, don't you talk? Are we allowed to Tarzan pull Clayton's right foot from under him? And continues his new examination at the storage white man's leather feet. Clayton struggles to regain his balance. Look here, old man. I don't think this has gone far enough. Tarzan lets Clayton's foot go. He reaches for the rifle, but Clayton's so quick. The Englishman tries to get his hand over the trigger guard. Tarzan grips, barrel, and stops. He twists. Clayton winces. His fingers caught in the guard. They sway from side to side. Tarzan raises his arms above his head. Clayton hangs by his fingers to the trigger guard. He can't hang on. His fingers slip, slip between the trigger and guard. He tries to draw them clear. He can't! Meanwhile, back at the hut, Jane, her father and Philander discuss Clayton's prolonged absence. I completely fail to comprehend why a practical man like Clayton does not return. Oh, do you suppose anything could have happened to him? Almost anything might happen in this world enough. Don't worry, Jane. I'm sure Cecil is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Yes, yes, of course he is. Dear, dear, me so many things have happened. I've hardly had time to write a line in my notebook. Dear, dear me, I had built such high hopes of finding the treasure in order that it might defray my archaeological research costs. Oh, did it ever occur to you, Daddy, that perhaps there might not be any treasure, that it all might be a hope? Oh, dear, what has happened to Cecil? Oh, touch, touch, Jane. I am perfectly convinced. My internal evidence is reduced by me from the max. Well, might he have been a forgery? Yes, yes, perhaps. I am basically fair in my judgment it might have been a forgery. However, I feel that such an eventuality is remotely negligible. Well, have you thought that there might be a duplicate map of the treasure location? Duplicate map? Why, yes. I read in books about pirates that it sometimes happens that one of the crew makes the map for himself unknown to the captain. Then he can come back and feel the treasure for himself later. Oh, dear, what the worse, Cecil is. The world's really, really most interesting, my dear. I must admit that the possibility of such a thing had escaped me. Perhaps, yes, it is quite a possibility, but I fear it is too much to hope. I fear the mutineers have expounded with our treasure and are probably even now dissipating the proceeds. Oh, it's not a treasure we should be worrying about now, Daddy. It's Cecil. It seems hard to ignite me that he would have stayed away as long as this. You're right, my dear. Then, as you've suggested, we had better prosecute the stupor, sir. And I better remain with Jane. I'm certainly not. Nothing will harm me. Then we will proceed at once. Come, Philander. It doesn't return while you are gone. I will fire one shot. That will give a signal for you to come back. No, no, no. Why, yes, one shot. Remember, Philander, one shot. I shall forget. Now, keep it inside of the cabin. But, my dear, if we keep within sight of the cabin, it will seriously impair the efficiency of the search. Well, be very, very careful, then. We shall be careful. Well, come, Philander. Let us enter the primeval path. Here, here, now, now. Please, please point that rifle either at the ground or at the cut. You leave, Professor. I have no fear I've handled rifles before. Oh, Julie, careful. Here, here, my dear. That is not a clear reason for you, my dear Philander, that if any sort of serious business works... Look, Professor. There's a broken branch. That means Trayton has passed this way. Again, my dear Philander, you are indulging in that exponentially facilitating habit against which I have so frequently warned you after jumping hastily at conclusions. The process of reasoning... My dear Professor, what I read in some book rather, I can't scroll to this moment to title, that the aborigines of these regions unerringly read such science in the forest. But I might call your attention to a false image of premise, Mr. Philander. You are not at aborigination. And our friends in the Cheat Talk evidently agree with my scientific conclusions. Apropos, I believe, we're out of sight of the cabin. And Jane said, right, right, they did say for us to remain going sight of the cabin. But might she not admit hearing rather than sight? I wonder. It's an acoustic rather than a visual signal with a ring. See here, Professor. There's a motor branch. Welcome to just the height of a man's hand. I am sure Trayton passed you. Most interesting. I must make a note, sir. Let us press 4 over the please, Professor. We may yet overtake, please. Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes. I mean, most that, when crushed, gives off a pungent odor. Would you describe the odor as pungent Philander? Or should I say... Well, say whatever you please. Sorry, we must try and... One moment, one moment, Philander. Do not be so precipitous, I say. Pungent odor, yes. I would describe it as pungent. And in that connection, I might also mention that the female of a certain species of fruit fly... Flesh me. So, what is that? A rifle shot. Trayton must have gone back. Come with us, sir. Come on, let's go. Come on, hurry, hurry. Back in the hut, Jane hears the shot. She thinks of Clayton, though. Well, her father may have fired it and goes to the door. Oh, well, stops her in her tracks. Before the hut stands, Sable the lioness. Jane leaps back into the hut and slams the door. With anxious fumbling fingers, she drops the locking bar into place. With a snarl of rain, Sable leaps. Her heavy-body crushes against the barrier. Jane stands behind the door, trembling. The lioness scratches at the rough planking between her and her prey. Sniffing, she circles the hut. She starts, looks at the barred window. She raises herself on her hind leg. Four claws on the still, she glares through the window. Sable sees Jane watching at the end of the hut. The wicked-eyed dream, the long, brutal claws work convulsively. She steps the barred with her huge paw. She drops to the ground, gathers her haunches under her, crouching. With a roar, she hurls herself upward. She crashes against the wooden bar. They creep under the terrific impact. They hold! Sable trips back to the ground. She reaches the door. Her is herself born again with terrific force. The door holds! Sable again eyes the window with its slim bars. She screams! The bar is snapped! Sable and huge paw, sling through the open. Another bar snaps, and another! The work goes as if I enforce with this great 20-hips through the window. Jane looks at the British head trained in the window. Desperation sees as I. She steps back. She sees a revolver lying on the bunk. She snatches it, pulls the weapon up, and pulls the trigger! She puts this table in the shoulder with a mingled roar of rage and pain. The lion is dropped to the ground. She crunches. Screams! Sable and huge paw, way through the window. Sprinted for Jane's presence. And again, and again, again and again, the hammer snaps down on the empty sh...