Tarzan of the Apes
D’Arnot remembered Clayton’s description of the awful roar with which
Tarzan had announced his kills, and he half smiled in spite of the
horror which filled him to think that the uncanny sound could have
issued from a human throat—from the lips of his friend.
As the party stood finally near the edge of the jungle, debating as to
the best distribution of their forces, they were startled by a low
laugh near them, and turning, beheld advancing toward them a giant
figure bearing a dead lion upon its broad shoulders.
Even D’Arnot was thunderstruck, for it seemed impossible that the man
could have so quickly dispatched a lion with the pitiful weapons he had
taken, or that alone he could have borne the huge carcass through the
tangled jungle.
The men crowded about Tarzan with many questions, but his only answer
was a laughing depreciation of his feat.
To Tarzan it was as though one should eulogize a butcher for his
heroism in killing a cow, for Tarzan had killed so often for food and
for self-preservation that the act seemed anything but remarkable to
him. But he was indeed a hero in the eyes of these men—men accustomed
to hunting big game.
Incidentally, he had won ten thousand francs, for D’Arnot insisted that
he keep it all.
This was a very important item to Tarzan, who was just commencing to
realize the power which lay beyond the little pieces of metal and paper
which always changed hands when human beings rode, or ate, or slept, or
clothed themselves, or drank, or worked, or played, or sheltered
themselves from the rain or cold or sun.
It had become evident to Tarzan that without money one must die.
D’Arnot had told him not to worry, since he had more than enough for
both, but the ape-man was learning many things and one of them was that
people looked down upon one who accepted money from another without
giving something of equal value in exchange.
Shortly after the episode of the lion hunt, D’Arnot succeeded in
chartering an ancient tub for the coastwise trip to Tarzan’s
land-locked harbor.
It was a happy morning for them both when the little vessel weighed
anchor and made for the open sea.
The trip to the beach was uneventful, and the morning after they
dropped anchor before the cabin, Tarzan, garbed once more in his jungle
regalia and carrying a spade, set out alone for the amphitheater of the
apes where lay the treasure.
Late the next day he returned, bearing the great chest upon his
shoulder, and at sunrise the little vessel worked through the harbor’s
mouth and took up her northward journey.
Three weeks later Tarzan and D’Arnot were passengers on board a French
steamer bound for Lyons, and after a few days in that city D’Arnot took
Tarzan to Paris.
The ape-man was anxious to proceed to America, but D’Arnot insisted
that he must accompany him to Paris first, nor would he divulge the
nature of the urgent necessity upon which he based his demand.
One of the first things which D’Arnot accomplished after their arrival
was to arrange to visit a high official of the police department, an
old friend; and to take Tarzan with him.
Adroitly D’Arnot led the conversation from point to point until the
policeman had explained to the interested Tarzan many of the methods in
vogue for apprehending and identifying criminals.
Not the least interesting to Tarzan was the part played by finger
prints in this fascinating science.
“But of what value are these imprints,” asked Tarzan, “when, after a
few years the lines upon the fingers are entirely changed by the
wearing out of the old tissue and the growth of new?”
“The lines never change,” replied the official. “From infancy to
senility the fingerprints of an individual change only in size, except
as injuries alter the loops and whorls. But if imprints have been taken
of the thumb and four fingers of both hands one must needs lose all
entirely to escape identification.”
“It is marvelous,” exclaimed D’Arnot. “I wonder what the lines upon my
own fingers may resemble.”
“We can soon see,” replied the police officer, and ringing a bell he
summoned an assistant to whom he issued a few directions.
The man left the room, but presently returned with a little hardwood
box which he placed on his superior’s desk.
“Now,” said the officer, “you shall have your fingerprints in a
second.”
He drew from the little case a square of plate glass, a little tube of
thick ink, a rubber roller, and a few snowy white cards.
Squeezing a drop of ink onto the glass, he spread it back and forth
with the rubber roller until the entire surface of the glass was
covered to his satisfaction with a very thin and uniform layer of ink.
“Place the four fingers of your right hand upon the glass, thus,” he
said to D’Arnot. “Now the thumb. That is right. Now place them in just
the same position upon this card, here, no—a little to the right. We
must leave room for the thumb and the fingers of the left hand. There,
that’s it. Now the same with the left.”
“Come, Tarzan,” cried D’Arnot, “let’s see what your whorls look like.”
Tarzan complied readily, asking many questions of the officer during
the operation.
“Do fingerprints show racial characteristics?” he asked. “Could you
determine, for example, solely from fingerprints whether the subject
was Negro or Caucasian?”
“I think not,” replied the officer.
“Could the finger prints of an ape be detected from those of a man?”
“Probably, because the ape’s would be far simpler than those of the
higher organism.”
“But a cross between an ape and a man might show the characteristics of
either progenitor?” continued Tarzan.
“Yes, I should think likely,” responded the official; “but the science
has not progressed sufficiently to render it exact enough in such
matters. I should hate to trust its findings further than to
differentiate between individuals. There it is absolute. No two people
born into the world probably have ever had identical lines upon all
their digits. It is very doubtful if any single fingerprint will ever
be exactly duplicated by any finger other than the one which originally
made it.”
“Does the comparison require much time or labor?” asked D’Arnot.
“Ordinarily but a few moments, if the impressions are distinct.”
D’Arnot drew a little black book from his pocket and commenced turning
the pages.
Tarzan looked at the book in surprise. How did D’Arnot come to have his
book?
Presently D’Arnot stopped at a page on which were five tiny little
smudges.
He handed the open book to the policeman.
“Are these imprints similar to mine or Monsieur Tarzan’s or can you say
that they are identical with either?” The officer drew a powerful glass
from his desk and examined all three specimens carefully, making
notations meanwhile upon a pad of paper.
Tarzan realized now what was the meaning of their visit to the police
officer.
The answer to his life’s riddle lay in these tiny marks.
With tense nerves he sat leaning forward in his chair, but suddenly he
relaxed and dropped back, smiling.
D’Arnot looked at him in surprise.
“You forget that for twenty years the dead body of the child who made
those fingerprints lay in the cabin of his father, and that all my life
I have seen it lying there,” said Tarzan bitterly.
The policeman looked up in astonishment.
“Go ahead, captain, with your examination,” said D’Arnot, “we will tell
you the story later—provided Monsieur Tarzan is agreeable.”
Tarzan nodded his head.
“But you are mad, my dear D’Arnot,” he insisted. “Those little fingers
are buried on the west coast of Africa.”
“I do not know as to that, Tarzan,” replied D’Arnot. “It is possible,
but if you are not the son of John Clayton then how in heaven’s name
did you come into that God forsaken jungle where no white man other
than John Clayton had ever set foot?”
“You forget—Kala,” said Tarzan.
“I do not even consider her,” replied D’Arnot.
The friends had walked to the broad window overlooking the boulevard as
they talked. For some time they stood there gazing out upon the busy
throng beneath, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
“It takes some time to compare finger prints,” thought D’Arnot, turning
to look at the police officer.
To his astonishment he saw the official leaning back in his chair
hastily scanning the contents of the little black diary.
D’Arnot coughed. The policeman looked up, and, catching his eye, raised
his finger to admonish silence. D’Arnot turned back to the window, and
presently the police officer spoke.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
Both turned toward him.
“There is evidently a great deal at stake which must hinge to a greater
or lesser extent upon the absolute correctness of this comparison. I
therefore ask that you leave the entire matter in my hands until
Monsieur Desquerc, our expert returns. It will be but a matter of a few
days.”
“I had hoped to know at once,” said D’Arnot. “Monsieur Tarzan sails for
America tomorrow.”
“I will promise that you can cable him a report within two weeks,”
replied the officer; “but what it will be I dare not say. There are
resemblances, yet—well, we had better leave it for Monsieur Desquerc to
solve.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
The Giant Again
A taxicab drew up before an oldfashioned residence upon the outskirts
of Baltimore.
A man of about forty, well built and with strong, regular features,
stepped out, and paying the chauffeur dismissed him.
A moment later the passenger was entering the library of the old home.
“Ah, Mr. Canler!” exclaimed an old man, rising to greet him.
“Good evening, my dear Professor,” cried the man, extending a cordial
hand.
“Who admitted you?” asked the professor.
“Esmeralda.”
“Then she will acquaint Jane with the fact that you are here,” said the
old man.
“No, Professor,” replied Canler, “for I came primarily to see you.”
“Ah, I am honored,” said Professor Porter.
“Professor,” continued Robert Canler, with great deliberation, as
though carefully weighing his words, “I have come this evening to speak
with you about Jane.
“You know my aspirations, and you have been generous enough to approve
my suit.”
Professor Archimedes Q. Porter fidgeted in his armchair. The subject
always made him uncomfortable. He could not understand why. Canler was
a splendid match.
“But Jane,” continued Canler, “I cannot understand her. She puts me off
first on one ground and then another. I have always the feeling that
she breathes a sigh of relief every time I bid her good-by.”
“Tut, tut,” said Professor Porter. “Tut, tut, Mr. Canler. Jane is a
most obedient daughter. She will do precisely as I tell her.”
“Then I can still count on your support?” asked Canler, a tone of
relief marking his voice.
“Certainly, sir; certainly, sir,” exclaimed Professor Porter. “How
could you doubt it?”
“There is young Clayton, you know,” suggested Canler. “He has been
hanging about for months. I don’t know that Jane cares for him; but
beside his title they say he has inherited a very considerable estate
from his father, and it might not be strange,—if he finally won her,
unless—” and Canler paused.
“Tut—tut, Mr. Canler; unless—what?”
“Unless, you see fit to request that Jane and I be married at once,”
said Canler, slowly and distinctly.
“I have already suggested to Jane that it would be desirable,” said
Professor Porter sadly, “for we can no longer afford to keep up this
house, and live as her associations demand.”
“What was her reply?” asked Canler.
“She said she was not ready to marry anyone yet,” replied Professor
Porter, “and that we could go and live upon the farm in northern
Wisconsin which her mother left her.
“It is a little more than self-supporting. The tenants have always made
a living from it, and been able to send Jane a trifle beside, each