fast table.

The beaters--there were twenty-three of them, in white smocks--had but
just driven the birds into a patch of gorse, and were now circling to
the opposite side that they might drive down toward the guns. Lord
Greystoke was quite as excited as he ever permitted himself to become.
There was an exhilaration in the sport that would not be denied. He
felt his blood tingling through his veins as the beaters approached
closer and closer to the birds. In a vague and stupid sort of way Lord
Greystoke felt, as he always felt upon such occasions, that he was
experiencing a sensation somewhat akin to a reversion to a prehistoric
type--that the blood of an ancient forbear was coursing hot through
him, a hairy, half-naked forbear who had lived by the hunt.

And far away in a matted equatorial jungle another Lord Greystoke, the
real Lord Greystoke, hunted. By the standards which he knew, he, too,
was vogue--utterly vogue, as was the primal ancestor before the first
eviction. The day being sultry, the leopard skin had been left behind.
The real Lord Greystoke had not two guns, to be sure, nor even one,
neither did he have a smart loader; but he possessed something
infinitely more efficacious than guns, or loaders, or even twenty-three
beaters in white smocks--he possessed an appetite, an uncanny
woodcraft, and muscles that were as steel springs.

Later that day, in England, a Lord Greystoke ate bountifully of things
he had not killed, and he drank other things which were uncorked to the
accompaniment of much noise. He patted his lips with snowy linen to
remove the faint traces of his repast, quite ignorant of the fact that
he was an impostor and that the rightful owner of his noble title was
even then finishing his own dinner in far-off Africa. He was not using
snowy linen, though. Instead he drew the back of a brown forearm and
hand across his mouth and wiped his bloody fingers upon his thighs.
Then he moved slowly through the jungle to the drinking place, where,
upon all fours, he drank as drank his fellows, the other beasts of the
jungle.

As he quenched his thirst, another denizen of the gloomy forest
approached the stream along the path behind him. It was Numa, the
lion, tawny of body and black of mane, scowling and sinister, rumbling
out low, coughing roars. Tarzan of the Apes heard him long before he
came within sight, but the ape-man went on with his drinking until he
had had his fill; then he arose, s