 Farzan of the aches brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Wright Burroughs' astounding book. Farzan tightens his grip. A stream dies in King Filch. Below his mates stand fascinated, hypnotized, frozen with fear. Farzan looks down upon the group. In awful silence his toes dripping the bark of a broad limb. Inch-bind she moves toward its tip. With one quick movement he draws the sailor to him. The mighty forearm flexes, penses, and like a stone shot from a catapult, King shoots down, down upon the heads of his comrades. The sight of King, one of his mates, friddling from the tree, shots Snakes, the leader of the pirates, into action. He reaches for a gunny fire. The shot rings and echoes through the jungle. The bullet with a few spats buries itself in the tree. Before Snakes can press the trigger again, Farzan swifts as a leaping panther, flashes upward, and is washed in the black shadows of the towering cross-strees. Er, King, what happened? What was he gonna make? Let me get away! Where we go? Let me get away! Don't let him get near me again! Er, come on, be King. Pull yourselves together. Do I mean you? I'm dead, King. Well, we'll all be dead. I tell you, we'll all be dead if we hang around here. King's doing. He goes through the stream like a mucky. Jesus, try and knock. I won't stay around here for a little bit. Well, stay here as long as I say you will. See? Now, come on with ya. What's happened? I was going to put out that lightsaber in the Professor's cabin like it told me to, but all of a sudden, out of the trees with the rope, he's been around the net. And first thing I know is I've just entered the tree. Limey. Rope, eh? It is that snake. I don't know what he is. Ties the rope and spout me arms, and here I am masked. I am above the ground. Tighten the guy's arms. You know what we do? Go on. Go on, breath. Let me give you breath. He takes your knife out of me. That's a whatever he bears. Point to the up, and say to me that he'll cut me through if I go nearer. Then he ups and carries me back here and cuts me down at ya. Didn't he say nothing? No, he came to watch what he don't have to. Am I? I won't never forget him. Well, mate, all we've got to do is slide this near test into the hole, fill it up, and blow. But do so for me. That's it, mate. Now, come feed over with a bit of brush. Thank you. Tarzan, from his hidden perch, watches Snifton as murderous crew bury the traitor in a new hiding place and hurried toward their beach boat. Their one idea is to put as much distance between themselves and as gentle terror as possible. Swiftly, silently as the mate itself, Tarzan drops to the lower terrace and, squatting on a limb, sails curiously at the spot where the men have buried the box. If the men did not want the box, then why didn't they cross it aside? Tarzan understands burying the portion of a kilo which he cannot eat, but the box, what do they want with that? Perhaps the men are going to return. That must be it. Tarzan swims to the ground. With his hands flushed aside the underbrush covering the spot. His hands strike metal. It's the spade carefully falling aside by one of the mutineers. Tarzan takes it into his hands as he has seen the men do, and guiding it with untrained fingers, he pushes it into the ground. He digs. But Tarzan is not used to such a tool as this. The spade hurts his bare foot. His hands will not guide it as he wishes. Yet the ape man goes on. He digs and scrapes away. The loose dirt yields to it. The spade strikes the chest. Tarzan casts the spade aside. He peers into the hole. He runs his fingers over the chest examining it. abruptly he reaches down, and as though that great box were an empty packing case, he pulls it from the hole. He hangs the spade over his back with a brass rope, picks up the chest, that great treasure chest, which attached the combined strength of four men, lifts it to his shoulders, and plunges into the brush. He follows one of the ape trails, the spot deep in the jungle, nimble, light as any of the big cats, he's had silent place swiftly along the trail. He knows nothing about the contents of the treasure chest. He only knows that he does not like the crews from Mangané to whom he belongs, and that he wishes to annoy them so that they will leave his jungle. His face slackens. He pauses for an instant, tense, listening. Satisfied, he flings down the chest and begins to dig with the spade. Farzan learns quickly. The little practice has taught him a great deal about his use. The hole deepens rapidly. In the surrounding trees, creepy monkeys wait. They stare at him. He is down at the ape man and scores. The first golden fingers of the coming dawn hinge the eastern sky. Farzan works fast. The hole is big enough. Quickly he pumps the chest in, but bending, he moves the dirt, covers it with twigs, leaves. A perfect concealment. vastly different from the brush piled on his clumsy hiding place by snakes and his mates. With one last backward glance, Farzan catches a vine and swings into the trees. Legially he makes his way toward the little cove, beside which stands the hut. The sun glints over the distant mountains. The jungle wakes to a new day. Farzan glances down with his hearing. He stops, passionate. There before the hut stands, S-H-E. Quietly he lures himself to the branch and sits soon in his feet. While dreams outside the hut preparing breakfast, Professor Porter, Belander and Clayton are inside, discussing their escape from the mutineers. Rather, a knobble-tipper has given it to be able to sleep all night without the possibility of waking up with our face cut. Now, Archimedes, you know that one can't wake up with a cut throat. Touch, touch, touch, Belander. I was speaking metaphorically. One whistle lacks in his mode of expression. You are much too meticulously particular. Metaphorical or not, I endorse the sentiment. This is the first time for a week that I've had both eyes closed while I slept. Where is Jane? Outside, learning how to make coffee without a percolator. Do my senses deceive me? Or do I really smell bacon? Most emphatically, you smell bacon. Most amazing. Here we are on the west coast of Africa, miles from civilization, and yet we have bacon for breakfast. That's nothing amazing about it. I carried that bacon ashore my shift. Breakfast, you want it served as a harbor outside? Outside, I'd say. Most assuredly, why eat in the hut when we can eat out under the trees? With the birds singing. And the fries, professor. Now, you sit here, daddy, on this packing table. And me, Jane? You sit here, so you can reach for coffee. That's what you use, Jane. Oh, right. I'll pour it now. Give it a chance to cool in these tin muds. Jane? Thank you. And you, professor? Thank you. Mr. Philander. Thank you. And now? Can I do anything to help Jane? Yes. You may open that can of jam there. Of course. This one? That's it. You know, I'm really enjoying this. Of course you are. Why not? Have I not always been an experiment of the much debated theory that the simple life is the only solution of the conditions resultant from our chaotic existence of today? Just the same. And now, don't mistake me. I'm not seeing as a mystery. But the outlook here is not of the brightest. In the first place, we deliberately came to a place off the beaten track. Hence our chances of being picked up are, well, removed. Then you think that we are here for the rest of our lives? No, not necessarily. The rest of the ship will result in a fit. But we can't go too much off. Really, I don't know that I care much. Possibly. But what about Jane? She's young. She doesn't have your interest in things archeologically. Yes, yes, yes. I think without thinking. A very delightful breakfast, Jane. Truly delightful. Thank you. Now, to get to this. First, a stronger bar at the door. A separate room for you, Jane, and some other things to make us as comfortable as possible. Ah! I feel the need of a little exercise. I shall take a walk. Join me, Philander. Of course, of course. Now, as I say last night, when you go off to sleep, by the way, Philander, that is noose and dignified. What? Falling asleep? Now, don't deliberately consume my language. I represent you falling asleep while I was talking to you. Sorry, Archimedes, but despite your most enlightening remarks, I was peacefully sleeping. Professor Thoreau and Philander intend on their discussion as soon as scientific wandered deeper and deeper into the jungle. Night falls. Oblivious to everything except their discussion, the true friends wander on and on. From the matted mass of underbrush numerous true yellow eyes watch. I'm going to tell you numerous true yellow eyes watch. I'm going to tell you numerous more.