 We continue with Edgar Rice Burrow's famous story, Tarzan of the Eighths. Braystow throws himself flat on his face. The Eighth one just passed. Braystow regained his feet. The Eighth is faster. Braystow is running to the hut. The Great Eighth in one powerful leap cuts him off. It's too late. Those horrible hairy hands are reaching for him. Braystow turns. His face is a horrible mask of terror. He looks at those inflamed racing eyes. Bull that voices a terrible cry. A cry dreadful to hear. He screams. The man crushes his fist into the hairy face. It serves only to infuriate the root. The huge mouth of the Eighth opens. His yellow-tanged dream. Braystow struggles to relate to escape the mighty clutch. I'm a hot-petted glutton to bully the long man's face. It's the end. The end. A shot from where? The Great Eighth screams the same. Slowly, the Great Body sags until it drops on all fours. Motionless. Braystow watches the flame zone out of the Great Beast's eyes. With a sighing grunt, the great man reached to the forest. Troubles over death. Its jaws fall open. Its eyes grow cold. Glazed. For a moment, Braystow stands in frozen horror and wonderment. Then slowly, a realization dawns on him. His wife atch out the brute. He whirls and staggers to the cabin. Alice. Alice. It's all right, dear. You shot him. Oh, Alice. Where's the water? Where's the water? It's gone there, darling, there. Everything is all right. I'm all over there. I'm safe. And the brooch is dead. Oh, steady now. Everything is all right. He's dead, dear. Don't get excited. Relax, Alice. You're a little hysterical. That's all. Just a little hysterical. While Braystow is trying to soothe his wife, miles away from the little hut on the seashore, a death cry of bull that came to the keen ears of the ape tribe. Some of the apes are rubbing at the roots of trees. Young are tumbling over each other in the clearing. Some are swinging indolently from branch to branch in search of fruit. The cry reaches their ears. All pause. All a silent for a moment. They recognize the death cry of one of their kind. As though one accord they gather in the clearing. The females in young cattle excitedly, the males grumble. The hair on the back of their squat-powerful necks bristles. They hold a chaotic conference. One giant beast assumes command. He'll perchack. Another male of huge proportion disputes him. In a few moments, one of the two bestial half-men will be the ruler. The other will be a torn and battered victim. All contestants stand pacing each other. The tribe makes a great circle. The leader of the apes submits a fearful cry which echoes through the jungle to silent power within hearing distance with its ferocity. It is a challenge. With a snarl of rage and hatred, the smaller one hurls himself upon his opponent, burying his fangs deep into the other shoulder. With a cry of rage and maddening pain, the greater it smashes the other other face with his open hand. Without a pause, without mercy, he's upon him again, fighting for a hold. The smaller ape is more agile. He eludes for a moment, but only for a moment. He's upon him again. Again, the smaller ape hides stuck in hell for the silent glow. The greater ape catches his arm, breaks it for a snap, howling with pain, howls, who's charged. He knows it'll be his last. He's still on his feet, only by the intensity of his dogged animal will. Crying through starling, horrible to see, the prove advances. The other attack is beautiful against him. The fighting arms affect him not at all. For the roar, the great pieces upon him again, grasping his cheeks to defeat. The victor picks up the battered form and hurls it to the earth again and again and again. Then satisfied, he voices his cry of victory, telling the jungle, no one disputes his claim. I've resumed their chattering. The new ruler is issuing his first command, stand and take to the trees out for him, as he starts off through the jungle on his way from whence came the dying cry of Bola. I knew my little hut that Lord and Lady Greystone built. We find that Alice has recovered from her fight. Oh, John! John! You're alive! But it's only good fortune that you are. That was a lucky shot. Well, it was a good shot. Well, it was some good luck or good marksmanship. Oh, how I hate the jungle. No, no, Alan. That probably won't happen again in the Middle India. But it was the first time one of those beggars was even really attacked, you know? Yes, I know. But I'm so tired of being afraid. And I'm even more fearful since the baby came. Oh, hush, dear. As long as we're in the hut we're safe. It was foolish of me not to have taken my rifle when I went out. I'll be more careful after this, and there won't be a thing for you to worry about, dear. Not a thing. John, dear, will you please see what's the matter with you? Well, all right, dear. What is it, lad? Any complaints to me? You can cover it up. To the eyes? Oh, I see. He's sleeping on that wooden doll I made for him. And he finds it, darling, uncomfortable, too. There. How's that? Fine. Now go to sleep and let me hear no more of it. Oh, is that so? Well, tell me about it in the morning. John, have you ever wondered what the baby would be like when he grows up? Very much like any other English boy, I imagine. Oh, no, he won't. Not living in the jungle all his life. Nonsense, dear. He isn't going to live in the jungle all his life. Why, long before it's time for him to go to school, he'll be picked up. It's only a matter of time. Two years. And not even a sight of a ship. No. I'm afraid that your optimism is commencing to bring a little fault. No, I'm just upset after what happened tonight. That's all. But even if we were doomed to stay here forever, it isn't so bad, you know. We've had it to eat and we're comfortable. Yes, I know. But it's always living in fear of the jungle. However, there's no use hopping on it, is there? No, of course not. Try to forget about it. Yes. Yes, I must. Would you mind closing the door? Right, though. When Grey Stoke stepped through the door, the door he was never to close, he came face to face with a tribe of foolish, hairy figures. Alex! Alex! My rifle! Quick! In an agony of haste, John tried to close the door in the face of the Grey Dakes, but they thrust it open without effort and stood for a moment, blinking in the light. Alex! The rifle! Hurry! On the table! No! Don't break it! I can catch it! Yes, yes! One Grey Dope, he troubles all the dead. The other, maddened with frightened rage, surged into the room. Overheated on the tables and chairs, the gun has run from Grey Stoke's hand and he's been shooting into the crib. A evil cry is heard. Galar, the great female ape who still clutches the body of her baby to a breast that's not a cry. She drops her baby into the crib and snatches the human baby. Clutching little Lord Grey Stoke to her shaggy breast, she huddled with him in the corner, protecting him from the fury of the tribe as they demolished the content of the hut. Years later, the cabin was silent. The jungle had taken its toll. Galar, the great she-ape departing, bears alive and wailing the little son of Lord and Lady Grey Stoke into the jungle fastness. But a strange destiny awaits this boy who will become the mighty Tarzan of the...