At his side hung the hunting knife of his unknown father
in a sheath self-fashioned in copy of one he had seen among
the pictures of his treasure-books.
At last he reached the fast disappearing feast and with his
sharp knife slashed off a more generous portion than he had
hoped for, an entire hairy forearm, where it protruded from
beneath the feet of the mighty Kerchak, who was so busily
engaged in perpetuating the royal prerogative of gluttony that
he failed to note the act of LESE-MAJESTE.
So little Tarzan wriggled out from beneath the struggling
mass, clutching his grisly prize close to his breast.
Among those circling futilely the outskirts of the banqueters
was old Tublat. He had been among the first at the feast,
but had retreated with a goodly share to eat in quiet, and was
now forcing his way back for more.
So it was that he spied Tarzan as the boy emerged from
the clawing, pushing throng with that hairy forearm hugged
firmly to his body.
Tublat's little, close-set, bloodshot, pig-eyes shot wicked
gleams of hate as they fell upon the object of his loathing. In
them, too, was greed for the toothsome dainty the boy carried.
But Tarzan saw his arch enemy as quickly, and divining
what the great beast would do he leaped nimbly away toward
the females and the young, hoping to hide himself among
them. Tublat, however, was close upon his heels, so that he
had no opportunity to seek a place of concealment, but saw
that he would be put to it to escape at all.
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