They continued on for over a mile when they suddenly came in sight of a large camp. There were many tents and motor trucks.
'The safari!' exclaimed Rhonda. 'Pat got through!' As they approached the camp some one saw them and commenced to shout; then there was a stampede to meet them. Everyone kissed Rhonda, and Naomi Madison kissed Tarzan; whereat, with a growl, Balza leaped for her. The ape-man caught the wild-girl around the waist and held her, while Naomi shrank back, terrified.
'Hands off Stanley,' warned Rhonda with a laugh. 'The young lady has annexed him.'
Tarzan took Balza by the shoulders and wheeled her about until she faced him. 'These are my people,' he said. 'Their ways are not as your ways. If you quarrel with them I shall send you away. These shes are your friends.'
Every one was staring at Balza with open admiration, Orman with the eye of a director discovering a type, Pat O'Grady with the eye of an assistant director—which is something else again.
'Balza,' continued the ape-man, 'go with these shes. Do as they tell you. They will cover your beautiful body with uncomfortable clothing, but you will have to wear it. In a month you will be smoking cigarettes and drinking high balls; then you will be civilized. Now you are only a barbarian. Go with them and be unhappy.'
Every one laughed except Balza. She did not know what it was all about; but her god had spoken, and she obeyed. She went with Rhonda and Naomi to their tent.
Tarzan talked with Orman, Bill West, and O'Grady. They all thought that he was Stanley Obroski, and he did not attempt to undeceive them. They told him that Bill West had spent half the previous night trying to scale the escarpment. He had ascended far enough to see the camp fires of the safari and the headlights of some of the trucks; then, forced to abandon his attempt to reach the summit, he had returned and led the others to the main camp.
Orman was now enthusiastic to go ahead with the picture. He had his star back again, his leading woman, and practically all the other important members of his cast. He decided to play the heavy himself and cast Pat O'Grady in Major White's part, and he had already created a part for Balza. 'She'll knock 'em cold,' he prophesied.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Good-bye, Africa!
FOR two weeks Orman shot scene after scene against the gorgeous background of the splendid river and the magnificent falls. Tarzan departed for two days and returned with a tribe of friendly natives to replace those that had deserted. He led the cameramen to lions, to elephants, to every form of wild life that the district afforded; and all marveled at the knowledge, the power, and the courage of Stanley Obroski.
Then came a sad blow. A runner arrived bringing a cablegram to Orman. It was from the studio; and it ordered him to return at once to Hollywood, bringing the company and equipment with him.
Every one except Orman was delighted. ' Hollywood!' exclaimed Naomi Madison. 'Oh, Stanley, just think of it! Aren't you crazy to get to Hollywood?'
'Perhaps that's the right word,' he mused.
The company danced and sang like children watching the school house burn, and Tarzan watched them and wondered. He wondered what this Hollywood was like that it held such an appeal to these men and women. He thought that some day he might go and see for himself.
Over broken trails the return journey was made with ease and speed. Tarzan accompanied the safari through the Bansuto country, assuring them that they would have no trouble. 'I arranged that with Rungula before I left his village,' he explained.
Then he left them, saying that he was going on ahead to Jinja. He hastened to the village of Mpugu, where he had left Obroski. Mpugu met him with a long face. 'White bwana die seven days ago,' announced the chief. 'We take his body to Jinja so that the white men know that we did not kill him.'
Tarzan whistled. It was too bad, but there was nothing to do about it. He had done the best that he could for Obroski.
Two days later the lord of the jungle and Jad-bal-ja, the Golden Lion, stood on a low eminence and watched the long caravan of trucks wind toward Jinja.
In command of the rear guard walked Pat O'Grady. At his side was Balza. Each had an arm about the other, and Balza puffed on a cigarette.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hello, Hollywood!
A year had passed. A tall, bronzed man alighted from The Chief in the railroad station at Los Angeles. The easy, majestic grace of his carriage; his tread, at once silent and bold; his flowing muscles; the dignity of his mien; all suggested the leonine, as though he were, indeed, a personification of Numa, the lion.
A great throng of people crowded about the train. A cordon of good natured policemen held them back, keeping an aisle clear for the alighting passengers and for the great celebrity that all awaited with such eagerness.
Cameras clicked and whirred for local papers, for news syndicates, for news reels; eager reporters, special correspondents, and sob-sisters pressed forward.
At last the crowd glimpsed the celebrity, and a great roar of welcome billowed into the microphones strategically placed by Freeman Lang.
A slip of a girl with green hair had alighted from The Chief; her publicity agent preceded her, while directly behind her were her three secretaries, who were followed by a maid leading a gorilla.
Instantly he was engulfed by the reporters. Freeman forced his way to her side. 'Won't you say just a word to all your friends of the air?' he asked, taking her by the arm. 'Right over here, please, dear.'
She stepped to the microphone. 'Hello, everybody! I wish you were all here. It's simply marvelous. I'm so happy to be back in Hollywood.'
Freeman Lang took the microphone. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he announced, 'you have just heard the voice of the most beautiful and most popular little lady in motion pictures today. You should see the crowds down here at the station to welcome her back to Hollywood. I've seen lots of these home-comings, but honestly, folks, I never saw anything like this before—all Los Angeles has turned out to greet B.O.'s beautiful star—the glorious Balza.'
There was a suspicion of a smile in the eyes of the bronzed stranger as he succeeded at last in making his way through the crowd to the street, where he hailed a taxi and asked to be driven to a hotel in Hollywood,
As he was registering at The Roosevelt, a young man leaning against the desk covertly noted his entry, John Clayton, London ; and as Clayton followed the bell boy toward the elevator, the young man watched him, noting the tall figure, the broad shoulders, and the free, yet cat-like stride.
From the windows of his room Clayton looked down upon Hollywood Boulevard, upon the interminable cars gliding noiselessly east and west. He caught glimpses of tiny trees and little patches of lawn where the encroachment of shops had not obliterated them, and he sighed.
He saw many people riding in cars or walking on the cement sidewalks and the suggestion of innumerable people in the crowded, close-built shops and residences; and he felt more alone than he ever had before in all his life.
The confining walls of the hotel room oppressed him; and he took the elevator to the lobby, thinking to go into the hills that he had seen billowing so close, to the north.
In the lobby a young man accosted him. 'Aren't you Mr. Clayton?' he asked.
Clayton eyed the stranger closely for a moment before he replied. 'Yes, but I do not know you.'
'You have probably forgotten, but I met you in London.'
