Tarzan and the Stranger

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 pan of Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Tarzan, the bronzed white son of the jungle. And now in the very words of Mr. Burroughs, the story of Tarzan and the stranger. Perhaps only those who have visited a native African village during the long rainy season can picture the crawl of the Puneatrada.

It had rained on and off for months. Great, stagnant pools of water were everywhere. Moly rubble was piled high behind each hut. And the few natives who were outdoors wore clothing of hides that were mildewed and sudden.

And yet inside the hut where Tarzan towered above Torgo, a small native boy was almost like a son to him. It was comparatively comfortable. A bright moto burned in the fireplace, and in the past few hours, Tarzan had managed to make the place reasonably clean.

Now, he would not smell like home. Well, thank heavens for that. How mama and agama could go away and leave your hut in this condition is more than I can understand. He'd leave and hurry when messenger come from Kaiora tribe.

Mama and agama's sister's much sick. Well, if her sister keeps house like mama and agama, it's no wonder. Mama and agama say, wash dirt away, leave space for demons. Well, if that's the truth, we're going to leave a little room for the demons on your body, Targo. We're a finished house cleaning now, and you're next.