At boughs' ends, where the anthropoid swings from one tree
to another, there is most to mark the trail, but least to
point the direction of the quarry; for there the pressure is
downward always, toward the small end of the branch, whether
the ape be leaving or entering a tree. Nearer the center of
the tree, where the signs of passage are fainter, the direction
is plainly marked.
Here, on this branch, a caterpillar has been crushed by the
fugitive's great foot, and Tarzan knows instinctively where
that same foot would touch in the next stride. Here he looks
to find a tiny particle of the demolished larva, ofttimes not
more than a speck of moisture.
Again, a minute bit of bark has been upturned by the
scraping hand, and the direction of the break indicates the
direction of the passage. Or some great limb, or the stem of the
tree itself has been brushed by the hairy body, and a tiny
shred of hair tells him by the direction from which it is
wedged beneath the bark that he is on the right trail.
Nor does he need to check his speed to catch these seemingly
faint records of the fleeing beast.
To Tarzan they stand out boldly against all the myriad
other scars and bruises and signs upon the leafy way. But
strongest of all is the scent, for Tarzan is pursuing up the
wind, and his trained nostrils are as sensitive as a hound's.
There are those who believe that the lower orders are
specially endowed by nature with better olfactory nerves
than man, but it is merely a matter of development.
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