Tarzan and the Siren of Omdur Mara

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 browned white son of the jungle. And now in the very words of Mr. Burroughs, the story of Tarzan and the siren of Amdur Maran. Like Tarzan's jungle, the tiny city of Amdur Mara was deep in equatorial Africa, but there the resemblance ended, for civilization had tarnished the splendor of nature.

The city included a miserable collection of native huts, the wide sprawling and dirty official buildings, a crumbling jail, the sand breach palace of the Pasha, of human and discrete homes and cheap hotels, and so dans most infamous street.

From the whitewashed minaret of a mosque, the moezans summon the faithful to prayer. But a low rider is better when robes flying, disregarded the surah as he galloped up to the real heart of the city, the cafe ballore ental, standing in solitary splendor at the foot of the street of peace.

Take my horse! I should hold the range of bending. The room must make ourselves past with pung ground. Why? It is time of evening prayer. Even al-Sumanq' here is nothing for prayers. I have business in the Kapibari and Tal.

Make fast my state and have the door open for me. We'll be as you say, Master. Arms, mighty sheep. Give this lowly Arab a small box sheesh. I have neither patience nor money for beggars.

Out of my way. Now, there's a thousand times, a thousand curses on you. You should not kick crippled beggar, Fendi. Am I to be taught manners by a no-bein slave? I meant no harm, Master.