“Say, young man, do you know who I am?” demanded Stimbol.
“I am not interested,” replied Tarzan coldly.
“Well you’d better be. I’m Wilbur Stimbol of Stimbol & Company, brokers, New York!” That was a name to conjure with—in New York. Even in Paris and London it had opened many a door, bent many a knee. Seldom had it failed the purpose of this purse-arrogant man.
“What are you doing in my country?” demanded the ape-man, ignoring Stimbol’s egotistical statement of his identity.
“Your country? Who the hell are you?”
Tarzan turned toward the two blacks who had been standing a little in the rear of Stimbol and to one side. “I am Tarzan of the Apes,” he said to them in their own dialect. “What is this man doing in my country? How many are there in his party—how many white men?”
“Big Bwana,” replied one of the men with sincere deference, “we knew that you were Tarzan of the Apes when we saw you swing from the trees and slay the great snake. There is no other in all the jungle who could do that. This white man is a bad master. There is one other white man with him. The other is kind. They came to hunt Simba the lion and other big game. They have had no luck. Tomorrow they turn back.”
“Where is their camp?” demanded Tarzan.
The black who had spoken pointed. “It is not far,” he said.
The ape-man turned to Stimbol. “Go back to your camp,” he said. “I shall come there later this evening and talk with you and your companion. In the meantime hunt no more except for food in Tarzan’s country.”
There was something in the voice and manner of the stranger that had finally gone through Stimbol’s thick sensibilities and impressed him with a species of awe—a thing he had scarcely ever experienced in the past except in the presence of wealth that was grossly superior to his own. He did not reply. He just stood and watched the bronzed giant turn to the gorilla. He heard them growl at one another for a moment and then, to his vast surprise, he saw them move off through the jungle together, shoulder to shoulder. As the foliage closed about them he removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a silken handkerchief as he stood staring at the green branches that had parted to receive this strangely assorted pair.
Finally he turned to his men with an oath. “A whole day wasted!” he complained. “Who is this fellow? You seemed to know him.”
“He is Tarzan,” replied one of the blacks.
“Tarzan? Never heard of him,” snapped Stimbol.
“All who know the jungle, know Tarzan.”
“Humph!” sneered Stimbol. “No lousy wild man is going to tell Wilbur Stimbol where he can hunt and where he can’t.”
“Master,” said the black who had first spoken, “the word of Tarzan is the law of the jungle. Do not offend him.”
“I’m not paying you damned niggers for advice,” snapped Stimbol. “If I say hunt, we hunt, and don’t you forget it.” But on their return to camp they saw no game, or at least Stimbol saw none. What the blacks saw was their own affair.
V
The Tarmangani
During Stimbol’s absence from camp Blake had been occupied in dividing the food and equipment into two equal parts which were arranged for Stimbol’s inspection and approval; but the division of the porters and askari he had left until the other’s return, and was writing in his diary when the hunting party entered the camp.
He could see at a glance that Stimbol was in bad humor, but as that was the older man’s usual state of temper it caused Blake no particular anxiety, but rather gave him cause for added relief that on the morrow he would be rid of his ill-natured companion for good.
Blake was more concerned, however, by the sullen demeanor of the askari who had accompanied Stimbol for it meant to the younger man that his companion had found some new occasion for bullying, abusing or insulting them, and the difficulty of dividing the safari thus increased. Blake had felt from the moment that he had definitely reached the decision to separate from Stimbol that one of the greatest obstacles they would have to overcome to carry out the plan would be to find sufficient men willing to submit themselves to Stimbol’s ideas of discipline, properly to transport his luggage and provisions and guard them and him.
As Stimbol passed and saw the two piles of equipment the frown upon his face deepened. “I see you’ve got the stuff laid out,” he remarked, as he halted before Blake.
“Yes, I wanted you to look it over and see that it is satisfactorily divided before I have it packed.”
“I don’t want to be bothered with it,” replied the other. “I know you wouldn’t take any advantage of me on the division.”
“Thanks,” replied Blake.
“How about the niggers?”
“That’s not going to be so easy. You know you haven’t treated them very well and there will not be many of them anxious to return with you.”
“There’s where you’re dead wrong, Blake. The trouble with you is that you don’t know anything about niggers. You’re too easy with ’em. They haven’t any respect for you, and the man they don’t respect they don’t like. They know that a fellow who beats ’em is their master, and they know that a master is going to look after them. They wouldn’t want to trust themselves on a long trek with you. You divided the junk, now let me handle the niggers—that’s more in my line—and I’ll see that you get a square deal and a good, safe bunch, and I’ll put the fear of God into ’em so they won’t dare be anything but loyal to you.”
“Just how do you propose selecting the men?” asked Blake.
“Well, in the first place I’d like you to have those men who may wish to accompany you—I’ll grant there are a
