Cathedral of the Congo

From the heart of the jungle comes a savage cry of victory. This is Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle. From the black core of dark Africa, land of enchantment, mystery, and violence comes one of the most colorful figures of all time, transcribed from the immortal pen of Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Tarzan, the bronze-white son of the jungle. And now in the very words of Mr. Burroughs, the story of Cathedral of the Congo. Of all the river porch that dot the banks of the mighty Nile, Tarrac is the most miserable, the dirtiest, the most crime-ridden.

The slender figure who walked down the dimly-lighted street of the devil was that of a man of God, and he was on a mission of the church. Suddenly two figures sprang at him from a darkened doorway.

A steel-like garrohed and circled his throat, and he fell to the ground dead without even a chance for a final word of prayer. I'd give my right arm to get the hang of you, who's in that piece of leather thong the way you do, Slim.

It's got knives and pistols beat a mile. Just a minute. I get the door. There we are. I don't try to carry myself, Benaro. I'll help you. He don't weigh any more than you do, Slim. I can handle him.

All right. Bring him in. Holy smokes, Slim. He's a minister. I knew that. You would. You got eyes like a cat. But when good's a minister, they ain't never got any money. Maybe this one has. Look through his pockets.

All right. Here we are. As well as... Ah, they're raining nothing here to buy. Saddlewax for your girl. Ah, there must be. Let me look through it. Heh, heh. The Reverend Nathaniel Malcolm. Yeah, we got the right guy, alright.