DesiGuru's World

The book tells the story about Kit Walker, son of the 20th Phantom, who will one day grow up to take over the mantle from his father and become the 21st Phantom.

The book starts with Kit's birth in the Skull Cave. Several chapters are dedicated to him growing up in the Bangalla jungle, where the readers get to see events and lessons that shape him to the man he will once become.

When Kit reaches the age of 12, he travels to Clarksville, USA, to receive a proper education (it is a tradition in the Phantom family that the children are sent away to their mother's homeland for education). Kit lives with his mother's sister and her husband in Clarksville.

Kit is a brilliant student, and receives excellent grades in every subject. Kit proves to be a talented sportsman, and is predicted to become the world champion of a number of different genres (he even knocks out the boxing champion of the world in a match when the champion visits Clarksville.

Kit also meets his future wife-to-be, Diana Palmer, on a Christmas party on his school.

Despite being able to choose practically any career he wants, Kit faithfully returns to Bengalla to take over the role of the Phantom when he receives word from his childhood friend Guran that his father, the 20th Phantom, is dying from wounds he received in a battle with pirates trying to rob a jungle hospital.

You can read this book online by clicking the individual chapter links:

[Chapter - 01]
[Chapter - 02]
[Chapter - 03]
[Chapter - 04]
[Chapter - 05]
[Chapter - 06]
[Chapter - 07]
[Chapter - 08]
[Chapter - 09]
[Chapter - 10]
[Chapter - 11]
[Chapter - 12]
[Chapter - 13]
[Chapter - 14]
[Chapter - 15]
[Chapter - 16]
[Chapter - 17]

For offline reading, download the files:

PDF Download - Formatted and ready for print.
TXT Download

Hope you enjoy this classics Phantom Novel!

CHAPTER 17

LONG LIVE THE PHANTOM

As he stepped into the torchlight, a roar came from the pygmies. Every man, woman, and child of the tribe of pygmies was there.

"The Phantom is dead. Long live the Phantom," they cried, using the ancient formula a long-dead Phantom had taught them.~ The smiling little people crowded about him to touch him. They had all loved his father. But there was no more sadness. These jungle people lived close to the earth and to the eternal cycles of life and death and the renewal of life in all living things. So there was no sadness. Their old friend was gone, but he had returned young and strong again. Now Kit realized the wisdom and importance of the Phantom costume. He was accepted without question, receiving all the acclaim and honors his ancestors had earned before him. It was his duty to uphold this honor.

He walked slowly to the Skull Throne while the laughing little people swarmed about him. To them, life was normal and good again. The Phantom was back. He sat on the stone throne with its stone skull carved on either side. This throne symbolized his role in the jungle as Keeper of the Peace. And on occasion, the tribal chiefs would gather here to discuss their problems with him or to settle disputes. But no Phantom had ever attempted to rule, and was not regarded as a ruler by any of the jungle folk. He was their ancient friend, whose only mission was to help bring peace among the perpetually warring tribes, and to help punish evildoers.

"Phantom, Phantom," the Bandar shouted, as they prepared a great feast in the clearing before the throne. Their shouts could be heard even beyond the roaring waterfall, and careless jungle folk who had wandered too close to the Deep Woods left hurriedly, wondering what strange ceremony was occurring among the pygmy poison people.

As he watched the preparations for the feast-which included the carcass of a small elephant and would go on for a week-images were racing through his mind. Clarksville, Harrison, Diana. Kit Walker Day. What had happened at the stadium? He would ask Diana someday, for he intended to see her again as soon as he could. But not as Kit Walker.

Now as he sat on the ancient Skull Throne, the seat of his ancestors, with the Bandar cries of "Phantom, Phantom," ringing in his ears, he was no longer Kit Walker, the Harrison phenomenon. That Kit Walker was gone, dead. He had become nameless, or many-named. For men of many nations would use many names for him in their own tongues, some of them unprintable. He would move in the shadows, his face never to be seen again except by his wife and the children of his blood. His would be a life of mystery and danger, and he was to create terror in evildoers and happiness for people of goodwill. And he would work alone, for this was the Phantom credo. The Ghost Who Walks. The Man Who Cannot Die.

A dozen little hands pulled him from the throne to the waiting feast. And what a feast! The pygmies had labored over it, and expended the energy of the whole tribe to gather and prepare it. Some was cooked, some raw, some skinned, some unskinned, some with feathers or scales intact; animals, fish, and fowl. And there were roots, herbs, nuts, and berries. The pièce de resistance, placed directly before Kit, was a hulking portion of elephant meat, half scorched for his benefit. It had been a major triumph for the little people to kill this monster, and it was a special treat for their guest of honor. He realized that this was his first chore, and it was not an easy one. Like Aunt Bessie so far away, they'd be unhappy if he didn't eat.

He looked at the mountain of rancid flesh before him. There was no escape. All eyes were watching him. There were no knives and forks here. He reached forward and ripped off a greasy morsel. They waited. He looked around at the rows of anxious little faces. Like hosts everywhere, they were awaiting his verdict.

"Here goes," he thought to himself, and holding his breath, began to chew.

That was a signal for happy bedlam among the Bandar.

They danced arid shouted.

"Phantom, Phantom. Long live the Phantom."

"Not for long, if I have to eat like this," he thought. There'll be some changes made in the menus of the Deep Woods. Still watching him, the pygmies began to gorge themselves. He took another deep breath, held it, and began chewing the greasy tough chunk again.

His father's last words had been: "There will be good times and bad times."

"I wonder which he would call this," he thought, grinning. But as he looked around at the friendly faces, so happy to please him and so happy to be with him, he knew the answer. He was home again.

CHAPTER 16

THE CRYPT

As he entered the cave, he instinctively looked for his beautiful mother. She had always been waiting there for him, just inside the entrance, out of the hot sun. He realized with a sickening feeling that she was no longer there. How long ago had she died? Five, six years? There had been that letter. He ran out, past the chamber of costumes and the Chronicles, past the major and minor treasure rooms with their glittering contents ("A whole roomful?" Uncle Ephraim had said, looking at the handful of jewels.) Now he reached the large rocky chamber where his father lay on a pile of furs. Two pygmies sat near him. They rose when Kit entered and quickly left.

His father was clad only in a loincloth. His chest, legs, arms, shoulder and forehead were wrapped in white bandages, covering more than a dozen wounds. His eyes were closed as Kit approached him.

"Father," he said.

The Twentieth opened his eyes. He had been expecting his son and was not surprised. He looked up at him, at this son grown to powerful young manhood. He smiled faintly, and in a soft voice said words uttered by parents in all ages.

"How you have grown."

Kit remembered the mighty body of his father from the days of swimming on the beaches of Keela-Wee and Eden, and from dips in jungle pools. Now, the attrition of his deadly battles was evident. He had lost weight, and the movement of his hand was slow and weak as he touched Kit's arm~ Kit sat beside him.

"You're going to get well, father," he said. His father shook his head. Again his deep voice was faint so that Kit leaned forward to hear him better.

"I'm living on borrowed time. Axel predicted I'd be gone by now. I fooled him." He laughed softly, an effort that turned into a wracking cough. Kit took his hand.

"Kit I am dying. I stayed alive to see you. There is not much time. Remember the Oath?"

Kit nodded, pressing his father's hand.

"Yes," he said, "I remember."

His father began the Oath of the Skull, pausing after each phrase so that Kit might repeat it.

"I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice, and my sons and their sons shall follow me."

That done, the Twentieth raised his left hand weakly.

"The rings, Kit."

Kit hesitated.

"Are you certain, father?" he asked. The rings were the final step.

"The rings," said his father, his voice more urgent and hurried now.

Kit removed the ring from the left hand and gave it to his father. Trembling, the father placed it on the ring finger of Kit's left hand.

"For the protection of good people," he whispered, fighting for breath. "The other."

He could no longer raise his hands. Kit removed the ring from the right hand. This was the death's-head ring, bearing the skull, the ancient symbol of the Phantom, known to all the jungle folk, to pirates of the seven seas, and to evil doers everywhere.

With Kit's help, his father slipped the skull ring onto his right hand.

"The ring of the Oath, Kit. Be faithful to it."

"I will be faithful to it."

"You know the rest-the mask-" began his father.

Kit bent low, speaking near his father's ear, "The mask for secrecy," he answered.

"The treasure."

"The treasure, used only for the good," he answered.

"The Chronicles."

"It will be written."

Kit was repeating the words he had learned as a child. His father's hand suddenly grasped his, desperately.

"Kit, your mother missed you so much-wanted to see you once more-must wait-now-"

He was struggling to say something else. His body trembled with the effort, and his hoarse whisper was so soft Kit could barely hear him.

"Kit, there will be good times-and bad times-"

Kit waited for more, his ear near his father's lips, but there was no more. A rush of breath, his hand relaxed. Breathing stopped. He was dead.

Kit lowered his head and sat in silence. Guran had said, "He said he will wait for you. He wills it."

He was right. Such was the strength of this amazing man. By some mysterious force in him, he had held off death long enough to see his son. He had willed it so.

Kit sat for some time in meditation next to his father in the flickering light of the torches set in the rocky walls. Then, from the early training, he knew what was required. He picked up his father and carried him to that musty cool chamber called the Crypt. He must do this alone, for that was the tradition of his ancestors. The chamber was lined with their vaults, from the First to the Nineteenth. Next to the latter was the undated tablet, the Twentieth. Near it on the floor was a stone box containing old iron tools. When had his father put that there? With the tools, he removed the undated tablet. Behind it was a metal casket. When had his father obtained that? It was the morbid task of each Phantom to select and install his own casket. Kit removed the casket, and carefully placed his father in it. He bent down and kissed the still-warm cheek, and memories of this patient generous man flooded his eyes with tears.

"Good-bye father," he whispered.

He replaced the metal cover and slowly returned the casket to its niche in the wall. Then, the next duty. Among the iron tools were a hammer and chisel. This was also his task, since none but the Phantom or his family could enter the Crypt. After marking numerals on the tablet with a crayon also found in the stone box, he began to chisel slowly and carefully: Below, the Twentieth, the years of his birth and death. That done, he hammered the tablet into place. After sweeping the floor and replacing the tools, he wearily surveyed his work. Now, the ancient line stretched from the First to the Twentieth. Twenty generations of bold unselfish men who had dedicated their lives to the fight against evil, and to promote the good. Now that he knew the outside world and had studied the past, Kit realized that this Phantom line was unique and without a parallel anywhere that he knew in the entire history of mankind. His sadness was replaced by pride as he looked at the vaults. "My family," he thought. "I am one of them."

He looked again at the freshly chiseled plaque covering his father's vault. Next to it was another undated plaque. That would be his someday. The Twenty-first. That was an odd thought. But it did not disturb him. To youth, as to soldiers going into battle, death is for other people.

Now he stepped out of the vault to the room of costumes, as was prescribed. There, on a stone bench, was a costume waiting for him, mask, hood, tights, trunks, gun- belt, and guns. How long had this been waiting for him? He put on the outfit. It fit. He almost smiled at that. Through the years in America, his parents had asked him to write his height and weight each year, so they could follow the growth of their absent son. It was a sentimental request. With those annual reports and photographs they felt closer to the development of their child as he grew to manhood. But in the last years, it had a practical use as well. The costume fit.

He often wondered about this particular costume. It seemed unsuited for the jungle. His father explained. The First had created the costume to fit the superstitious image of a certain avenging spirit that people of the jungle and coast believed in, in that era. The fear his appearance created helped him in his battle against the wild barbarism and savagery of his time. His son and those that followed continued the use of the same costume, and the legend of immortality started, that he was always the same man. That too was a major aid in the single-handed struggle against evil.

By the light of a burning torch, he looked at his image in the long metal mirror that had been his mother's. His appearance surprised and almost shocked him. Until one looked very closely, he looked just like his father. Roughly the same size, and the same outline. He picked up the two guns. They had been his father's. Beautiful polished deadly weapons. How soon would he have to use them, he wondered? A fleeting thought crossed his mind. Of those bandits who had attacked Father Morra's missionary school-the battle that caused his father's death-six had been overcome, but six had escaped by fleeing into the jungle. They must be found and brought to justice. He put the guns in the holsters, then drew quickly, as he had practiced so many times. He knew his life might depend on the quickness of that draw. Replacing the guns, he walked to the next chamber containing the Chronicles. Here, torches burned. A large new volume lay on the podium near the shelves of the volumes containing all the adventures of twenty Phantoms. He opened the new volume. The pages were blank. There was a quill pen and a small container of ink made of wild berries. He wrote the date at the top of the page and made his first entry.

"June 17: Today, my father died of wounds suffered at the hands of bandits who had attacked Father Mona's missionary hospital. He killed or wounded six. Six escaped. It will be my purpose to capture those six as soon as possible and see that they are properly punished by law."

He walked slowly through the treasure rooms. The "minor" treasure room heaped with jewels and gold. How Uncle Ephraim would love to see this! Then the major treasure room with its priceless objects of antiquity. He picked up the heavy glittering cup of Alexander, carved from a single giant diamond. He smiled, remembering how he had dropped it and his father's anger; and his father's description of Alexander. "Some call him Great." He had been in these rooms a thousand times. But now it all seemed different. The responsibility for all this was now his.

He knew the Bandar were waiting outside for him. He walked back through the vast cave, stopping once more at the Crypt. He stood there in silence. For a fleeting moment, he had the strange impression that a host of smiling masked faces looked down upon him from the walls and ceiling. A whisper seemed to come from them, and it echoed and re-echoed in the rocky chamber.

"Welcome. We trust you."

He shook himself. The faces were gone. Imagination is a strange thing. But he looked proudly at the line of vaults, from the First to the Twentieth.

"I will do my best," he said.

And he walked slowly out of the cave where a hundred torches burned, to where the gathered Bandar awaited him.

CHAPTER 15

RETURN OF THE NATIVE

When Kit and Guran left the campus that dark night, a taxi was waiting. Kit was determined to leave no clues. Guran entered the taxi which he had hired, Kit remaining in the shadows. Guran, speaking no English, gave the driver written instructions to return him to the airport. As the taxi started off, Kit came from behind, climbing onto the rear spare tire where he hung on, unseen. Near the airport, he dropped off as the taxi slowed down, and joined Guran on the field. It was late, and the few personnel on the field were sleepy and disinterested in the small chartered plane. Kit kept his face concealed from the pilot, through the use of sunglasses and a cap pulled low over his face.

They arrived at the metropolitan airport with only minutes to spare, but it turned out the departure of the big overseas plane had been delayed. At this hour, the big terminal was largely deserted, with only a scattering of drowsy people on the benches. Kit kept separated from Guran. The little man would attract attention. Wandering through the lobby, an item in a novelties counter caught Kit's attention. A false mustache intended for children. He bought it, and going into a men's room, put it on. With the large sunglasses and cap, the big black mustache completely disguised him.

Soon, they were in the air, bound for Bangalla. The foreign plane was half-filled, and while his face might have been recognized on most American streets, he was a stranger to these travelers to Bangalla, and did not really need the mustache. But he kept it on. There might be one person who knew his face. The secrecy and anonymity that Kit had fallen into so quickly was part of his childhood training. Without being told, he at once knew this was the expected behavior. Expected by whom? By the Phantom line, from the First to the Twentieth. And what about the Twentieth?

As they dozed and ate on the plane crossing the ocean, Guran told him about his father. Bandits had attacked the missionary school of Father Mona in the jungle. The young priest, some elderly helpers and fifty young native girls had no arms to defend themselves. The bandits took over the school, looted the supplies and small treasury, and began to terrorize the girls when the Twentieth arrived. Tom-tom signals had carried news of this raid to him. He burst upon the rogues like an avenging angel, Father Mona reported later, and single-handedly overcame a half dozen. The other half dozen fled for their lives into the woods. But in the furious fight, the Twentieth was badly hurt. Father Mona bandaged his wounds, but he refused to stay in the school. He had to return to the Deep Woods, and none could stop him. To the priest's amazement, he rode off on his black stallion, a successor to Thunder. Father Mona said he never knew how he climbed onto his horse, or stayed on, his wounds were so serious. But as long as a Phantom can move, he would return to the Deep Woods, or be carried there.

When the Twentieth reached the Deep Woods, he fell off his horse in a dead faint. Guran's father, the old chief, knew that his big friend was badly hurt, that he might be dying. He had lost much blood from his terrible wounds. He was beyond pygmy help. They put him on his fur pallet in the Skull Cave. Guran's father, the old chief, remembered Dr. Axel. He had been one of the warriors who had brought the young doctor to the Deep Woods to assist at Kit's birth. Now Dr. Axel had his Jungle Hospital a day's run away. The chief sent Guran and a few other pygmies for him. Dr. Axel, twenty-two years older now and wiser in the ways of the jungle, knew who these pygmies were this time, and immediately understood what they wanted. Thus, a generation later, he returned to the Deep Woods. Once again, he was blindfolded as on that first trip. But this time he was not afraid.

He had seen his big masked friend once or twice during the years. There had been other wounds that needed healing; and once, his hospital had needed the help of the protective mark as the Phantom had promised. But now he was dismayed when he saw his friend. He used his medicines, and did what he could. He brought the Twentieth back to consciousness, but told him the truth. He could not live more than a few days. He was wrong about that. The Twentieth had no intention of dying without seeing his son. He simply refused. Guran, the only pygmy who had ever seen foreign shores-which made him a celebrity among his people-was dispatched once more. So it happened that he found himself that night beneath Kit's window at Harrison University.

Kit listened somberly to the story. If Dr. Axel was right, his father might be dead now. Guran shook his head at that. "He said he would wait for you. He will," said the little man seriously. Such was the faith of the Bandar in the Twentieth. He had never gone back on his word. He would not do so now. Though saddened by this journey, Kit was thrilled by the faith his father inspired in these people, and the old admiration of the little boy for the father came back strongly.

On this trip, the strangeness between Kit and Guran was partially dissipated. Kit told him of his adventures in America, asked many questions about his friends in the Deep Woods, and the two laughed and joked as they had in the old days. For despite the seriousness of the mission, life goes on, and youth is strong and hopeful. The strangeness disappeared only partially. Not completely. For both had matured, and Kit felt that Guran was looking at him in a new way. Beneath the camaraderie, there was a new respect in Guran's manner, a new deference that Kit did not yet understand.

When they arrived at the airport at Mawitaan, the sleepy seaport capital of Bangalla, the trip began to be real for Kit. The air, the distant mountains, the sounds and smells, the smiling black faces, the melodious accents, the bright costumes, it was like returning to an old dream. This feeling would increase with every step he took toward the Deep Woods.

Leaving the airport, they went by carriage to the edge of the jungle. They had only walked a short distance, when they were met by a group of Wambesi warriors, ten in all. They looked at Kit curiously, wondering who he was. Word had come from the Deep Woods to escort this stranger who would arrive with Guran, Prince of the Bandar. Possibly some of them had been among the thousand-strong warriors that had taken him to the town a decade earlier. If so, none of them would see that boy in this young bronze giant. Perhaps giant was a misnomer for Kit. He was tall, a half foot over six feet. But his muscles were so powerfully developed from his years of sports, that he seemed like a true giant.

As soon as they were well into the jungle, Kit and Guran both began to discard their outer clothing. Off went the shoes, socks, coat, trousers, shirt, everything! Kit fashioned a loincloth from his shirt. Guran was wearing his own. They jogged along the quiet trail with the Wambesi. The Clarksville-Harrison years were rapidly slipping away. A warrior handed Kit a spear. He paused, then hurled it into a distant tree trunk where it sank in a foot, quivering.

The warriors, all expert spearsmen, applauded this stranger. In the few days that followed, they learned that he was no novice in this jungle. He hunted with them for meat, and gathered edible roots and berries. To their amazement he spoke their language fluently. Halfway on the journey, an escort of Llongo waited. The Wambesi departed with good memories of this friend of the Phantom. Kit chatted amiably with the Llongo in their dialect, instantly winning their friendship. None suspected his true identity. For to the Liongo, Wambesi, and all jungle folk, the Phantom was the Ghost Who Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die. It followed that he had no sons, no heirs. He needed none. Of all the jungle, only the pygmy Bandar knew the truth.

Now the jungle had become thicker, denser. The Liongo became nervous. They were beyond their own boundaries. This was no-man's-land. A place of headhunters and cannibals, it was said. Little Guran found trails and openings in the thick bush that no one else could see. Then the Llongo suddenly stopped. They had gone far enough. If one listened carefully, one could hear the distant roar of a waterfall. This was definitely forbidden land. As if to reinforce this decision, a pygmy suddenly stood up in the bushes. His arrow was in his bow. Another appeared in a tree, arrow pointed at them. Then another. And another. Guran held up his arms in greeting. The arrows remained in the bows. Kit thanked the Llongo as they began a slow retreat. They then turned and ran. They were brave, but the poison weapons of the pygmies were well known. A simple scratch meant death, in agony, or so it was reported, and none wished to prove the point. In moments, they were gone.

The pygmies looked curiously at Kit. None could see the little boy who had left so long ago. Guran explained rapidly in the clicks and clacks that formed their tongue. Kit greeted them in the same way. They came out of the bushes and down from the trees, and embraced him like the long lost friend that he was. Some of them had been children with him.

But the happy greeting was heavy with sadness.

"Is my father alive?" Kit asked them.

"He is alive," they told him, but they said it without joy. Kit raced toward the waterfall, filled with anxiety and anticipation. Other pygmies came out of the bushes to greet them. Ahead was the roaring, foaming waterfall, the secret entrance to the Deep Woods. Surrounded by the pygmies, Kit rushed through the torrent. The cold mountain water drenched him, washing off the dust of days, and invigorating his tired body.

As he came out of the waterfall, the entire village was waiting for him. The little men, women and children stood silently watching him. The big bronze man was little Kit! A few smiled shyly, but this was not a happy homecoming.

Kit's breath quickened. There was the Skull Throne, and the Skull Cave as he had seen it a hundred times in his dreams and in his daydreams. The old chief, Guran's father, stepped forward. "Welcome, Kit," he said, with quiet dignity. "You have returned in good time. Your father is waiting for you." Kit ran into the cave.

CHAPTER 14

WHERE IS KIT WALKER

The day dawned bright and cool and beautiful, perfect weather for the big event. People poured into the new stadium; the twelve high school marching bands; the athletes and singers, the senators and congressmen and mayors and assorted dignitaries, and the fifty thousand friends and relatives. "Kit Walker Day" banners were stretched across the main street. Similar banners were on dozens of chartered buses that had brought people from all parts of the state and were parked in rows outside the stadium. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were there, waiting in the center box reserved for Kit himself. Diana was to come with him. But Diana didn't come. Neither did Kit Walker.

The bands and the entertainers waited. The senators and congressmen and mayors waited. The fifty thousand friends and fans and relatives waited. All eyes were on the center box. Aunt Bessie was worried. Uncle Ephraim became more impatient as time went on. "Has he run away again?" he muttered. Ephraim couldn't know he'd guessed correctly. Phone calls were made, then students went to his room. All his clothes and books were there, everything in order. Someone thought of trying Diana. She had a headache, it was reported and would see no one. No, she knew nothing about her date, Kit Walker.

Now impatience turned to alarm. What had happened to him? Hospitals were called; alarms went to the police; bulletins were telegraphed and broadcast. Where is Kit Walker? An accident? Had gangsters kidnapped him? Hundreds had seen him at the prom the night before. He'd been seen by many, walking Diana to the dorm. Friends had seen him enter his room that night. Kit Walker Day was a fiasco.

Bessie and Ephraim left, to find their nephew. The program committee decided to go ahead with the entertainment, to avoid disappointment to thousands of visitors. So the bands marched and played, and the gymnasts whirled. The chorus sang, and the politicians made speeches, and all were directed at the empty center box draped with flags and banners. But it all sounded hollow, as empty as the center box itself. For the hero was gone.

The investigation spread. A tight-lipped Diana was questioned, but had no answers. Train stations and airports were watched. Nearby lakes and rivers were dragged. Kit Walker's disappearance became a national seven-day wonder. One of the greatest athletes in the history of collegiate sport had simply vanished on the eve of his greatest honor. The mystery was discussed, probed, argued in every newspaper and home in America. Kit's past was looked into, in the hopes of finding a clue. That only deepened the mystery. Bangalla was remote, far away. Correspondents in that distant land had never heard of him, or any Walker family. It was a marvelous mystery. Half the girls in America were in love with this sports hero whose photo adorned their bedroom walls. To vanish, and at such a time! It was too much! It was as though the earth had swallowed him up.

Diana kept her promise to Kit and revealed nothing. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim's despair caused her to talk to them one night.

"If I tell you something about Kit, will you promise never to repeat it?" she asked them. They agreed anxiously. "Cross your heart and hope to die if you ever tell?" insisted Diana, using a formula from childhood. They solemnly obeyed her. "Kit is well. He went away. You can guess where," she said. Their smiles and tears of relief rewarded her. Kit wouldn't have minded that.

Where was Kit Walker? demanded a world press, intrigued by this disappearance of a national sports idol. But there was no answer. The widespread interest finally subsided, but it was a mystery that people would discuss for years to come, one of the celebrated disappearance cases. Now and then a magazine writer would rehash the story with photos of the famous athlete, asking the old question. "Had the earth swallowed up Kit Walker?"

The earth had swallowed up Kit Walker. For there would be no more Kit Walker. He had vanished into mystery.

CHAPTER 13

THE RETURN OF GURAN

"Guran," Kit called, leaning out of the window. The little man nodded, satisfied he had come to the right place. Kit was about to tell him to wait, and to go down to meet him, but Guran didn't wait. There was a drainpipe on the wall, and he quickly climbed up to Kit's window. He came into the room and the two faced each other.

Ten years had passed since they'd seen each other. A full decade. Guran, now thirty-two (Kit figured rapidly), seemed unchanged, a stocky little figure whose head barely reached above Kit's waist. Guran looked up at Kit. He had left a slim boy. He now faced a powerful young giant. They looked at each other awkwardly. Kit's first impulse had been to embrace his old friend. But Guran seemed stiff and formal, and, at a second glance, had changed. He was heavier, his face lined, and more mature. In the brief moment before Guran spoke, Kit had a sinking feeling of apprehension. Why was he here?

"I bring you a message from the Deep Woods," said Guran in his simple pygmy tongue. "Your father asks that you return at once."

"Is he sick?" said Kit, trying to read the stolid face.

"He is dying," said Guran. Like all his people, he did not mince words. He came to the point. Dying? His father, the Twentieth? As strong as an oak, as solid as granite? It was not possible. His legs suddenly felt weak. He sat in a chair.

"Dying. How Soon?" he asked.

"Soon. He waits for you," said Guran.

"What is it? Disease, accident?" asked Kit.

"Knife-wounds," said Guran. "Bandits."

There was no time for further details now. That would come later. Kit must leave at once. Now.

"Now?"

To Guran the pygmy, "now" was not tomorrow, not in four hours or ten minutes. Now was right now.

Kit's mind raced. Tomorrow-Kit Walker Day. Exams. Graduation. Diana. Father dying. Now.

It was now because a small chartered plane was waiting at the local airport. It was necessary to leave in the plane at once to reach the scheduled flight in the large overseas plane that made the direct trip to Bangalla. If they missed that plane, there was no other direct flight for another week. That might be too late.

Kit was too confused at that moment to wonder how Guran had made all these arrangements. He learned later that old Doctor Axel, summoned from his Jungle Hospital to the Skull Cave, had done it all. Kit grabbed his toilet articles and threw them into a little old duffel bag. It didn't occur to him at that moment that it was the same duffel bag he had brought to America. He looked at his closet full of clothes, trousers, sweaters, team uniforms; his bureau full of shirts, and socks, and all the rest; shelves of books, notebooks, and photos. A large framed photo of Diana was on his desk. He put it in the duffel bag. Everything else would be useless in the Deep Woods. One last look at his room. He started toward the door, then stopped. There were friends in the halls. No one must see him leave. He went to the window and slid down the drainpipe, Guran following him.

It was late at night, few people were out, most of the college was asleep. Kit and Guran moved quickly to some bushes.

"Wait here," he said.

"Must leave now," said Guran flatly.

"There is one thing I must do. Wait," repeated Kit. He left the duffel bag with Guran and moved across the campus lawn, keeping behind trees and bushes to avoid being noticed by the few couples still enjoying the mild spring night. He reached the women's dormitory. He knew in which room Diana was sleeping. There was no drainpipe handy, but the large granite blocks of the wall gave him a foothold and he climbed high to the third floor. Diana's window was open and the room dark.

"Diana," he whispered. "Diana."

There was a frightened intake of breath from the dark room, a pause, then the soft low voice.

"Is that you Kit?"

"Yes, I must talk to you."

A rustle of silk, and she came to the window, her hair hanging below her shoulders.

"Oh Kit," she said in alarm, "You shouldn't have climbed up. Please come in. You'll fall."

"No time, Diana, darling, I must say good-bye," he said.

Good-bye? Was she dreaming? Or had Kit gone mad?

Or was he drunk? But he never drank alcohol of any kind.

"Good-bye?" she said faintly.

"I can't explain. I will someday. But I must go home. At once. My father is dying," he said.

His father dying? Part of the mystery he would never speak about. Now the mystery was suddenly real, big and dark, coming between them.

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say. Then. .. "Will you come back?"

"I don't know. But I will write you," he said.

"Kit Walker Day?" she said, suddenly remembering.

"I can't wait. Diana, please tell them nothing. You haven't seen me tonight. I'll write later to Aunt Bessie and Ephraim. But I want no one to know."

"What will they think?" she asked.

He was sitting on the windowsill in the darkness. There was a half-moon low in the sky, and Diana's lovely face was white in the moonlight.

"I don't know what they'll think, but I'm late now. I had to come to say good-bye."

She put her hands on his shoulders, suddenly frantic that he was leaving.

"How did you know about your father? What happened?" she asked.

"A messenger came. He is waiting. I can stay no longer," he whispered. "Diana. I love you."

He kissed her lightly on the lips, then on the forehead.

"Good-bye."

"Oh Kit . . ."

But he was already on his way down. She leaned out, watching fearfully as he climbed down a story, then dropped to the lawn. He waved from the dark ground, then rushed off. She stared in the darkness, following his retreating figure.

He disappeared among some bushes. Then, she vaguely saw his figure, followed by a small figure, disappear into the night. Was the smaller figure a child? Her mind raced back a decade. Kit and Guran the pygmy, on the banks of the swimming hole. Was that the messenger? She watched the moon move behind dark clouds. Then she stretched out on her bed, and wept into the pillow. It had all been so unreal. Maybe it was a dream, a nightmare. When she awoke in the morning, he would be waiting for her at the foot of the broad stairs. But the hollow feeling inside told her it was no dream.

CHAPTER 12

KIT WALKER DAY

Spring is beautiful almost everywhere. This spring was especially beautiful for Kit. His senior year, his last spring at Harrison. It was the time for spring dances, for young lovers to walk hand in hand in the shaded campus groves. Diana, still at girls' school in the east, came to Harrison several times to see Kit. Now almost eighteen, her early promise of beauty was fulfilled. She had grown into a magnificent young woman with hair like a black cloud. And she loved this young hero of Harrison. And Kit loved Diana. She still had four years of college ahead of her, but when she spoke lightly of the future, as a girl in love might, Kit became troubled and avoided the subject.

As the son of the Phantom, he could make no normal plans for the future. Sometimes he daydreamed about it. Diana in the Skull Cave-that seemed impossible, this girl from a rich family, beautiful clothes, private schools, European vacations, devoted to opera, concerts, theater, and achieving a place for herself in this world of athletics as an Olympic diver-Diana in the Skull Cave? Not only impossible. Ridiculous. So he never told her about the Cave, only the jungle. His reticence troubled her, but she trusted him. He must have a good reason.

But the spring was bringing more than graduation and proms to Kit. The huge stadium that had been built near the campus, largely through the prominence he had brought to Harrison, was now completed. And the university and students announced plans to honor their All-American star with a special "Kit Walker Day" in the new structure. Among the invited guests would be the state's senators and congressmen; twelve high-school marching bands; assorted mayors, judges, and other dignitaries; and fifty thousand friends and relatives. The great day came a week before final examinations began and would be the climax of his four-year career at Harrison. Diana came from the East, Aunt Bessie, Uncle Ephraim and a contingent of friends came from Clarksville; old classmates from Clark came, including Jackson; everybody who had met or known this extraordinary boy from the jungles of Bangalla came, even the Champ, with his retinue, to honor the "college kid" who had knocked him out.

By now, Uncle Ephraim was as proud of Kit as if he had been his own son. And Diana had stars in her eyes. It seemed the whole world loved her hero. What would happen after this month remained vague to Kit. He put it all out of his mind. Diana was with him, and that was all that mattered. Not quite all. Naturally, "Kit Walker Day" excited and pleased him, once it became a reality. He had tried to call off the event, but his pleas were ignored. Harrison U., no longer tiny, was determined to honor her favorite son.

The night before the big day, Kit was at the senior prom with Diana who floated like a dream in white chiffon across the polished dance floor-this was in the big gym, now decorated with flowers and streamers, where Kit had fought the heavyweight champion. That day had been tremendous. The small town was filled with strangers; hotels had to turn away people; private homes took them in. People slept in their cars, in buses, or on the grass. There was no room in the small town for the crowds that had come to honor Kit Walker.

After dinner with Diana, Bessie and Ephraim at the hotel, and the prom with Diana, which aunt and uncle attended as spectators, he bade them all good-night. There was a big day ahead for him. He walked Diana along the quiet campus walk to the women's dormitory, kissed her good-night-not once but many times-and raced back to his room, his head filled with her delicate perfume. Then he Sat and stared at the walls. A panorama of the years sped through his mind. The ship, Clark, Harrison, Diana. What now?

There was a sound at his second-floor window. Then another. He shook himself out of his reverie and went toward the window. Someone was throwing pebbles lightly against the glass. A fellow student? A fan? He looked out to the shadowy lawn below. A small figure was looking up at him. A child? No. A black man in a suit that was ridiculously large for him-hanging over his hands and shoes. Guran of the pygmy poison people.

CHAPTER 11

THE CHAMPION

Between studies and sports, Kit was kept busy at Clark Academy, and the four years sped by. Kit grew in those years, mentally as well as physically. He was reaching his full height, his shoulders broadening, his muscles filling out. And his skills in the various sports increased. The fame of the "schoolboy wonder" spread. Offers of athletic scholarships came from many major colleges and universities. Scouts, alumni, and coaches came to the locker rooms and even to the Carruthers' home, trying to catch this prize. This annoyed Aunt Bessie, though Uncle Ephraim enjoyed it. The dour man was proud of this amazing nephew and was actually learning to smile. Kit rejected all the offers. He had come to America primarily for an education. The sports were secondary. He chose a small college near the north woods, that specialized in forestry, for his natural interests were in this field. He graduated with highest scholastic honors from Clark Academy, and coaches and faculty alike were sorry to see him go. He had put the obscure little boys' school on the map. Harrison University was to have a similar experience.

His arrival at tiny Harrison U. was heralded by the college paper and the local town newspaper. No longer the strange foreign boy starting school, his fame had preceded him: the "schoolboy wonder," holder of a dozen world's scholastic track records, boxing and fencing champion, football star. News of Kit's selection of Harrison U. had influenced other high school athletes to choose this little school. The nucleus of a good team arrived with him, at a school whose teams had always been obscure and unimportant.

Kit took up where he had left off at Clark. Under his young leadership, Harrison's teams mopped up their traditional opposition-minor colleges like themselves- and their small stadiums overflowed and were inadequate.

National television and radio crews came to broadcast these obscure games, all because of the phenomenal Kit Walker. Schedules were hurriedly rearranged. Within a year, Harrison's teams were invited to the major stadiums on both coasts. Their track teams entered all the national meets. Even the boxing teams of the large universities- usually minor sports relegated to a corner of the gym- needed larger quarters for the fans. It seems that all the world wanted to see Kit Walker.

He ran wild over the gridirons of the nation, and was an All-American choice his sophomore year. Now, scouts of the professional football teams haunted the locker rooms, as the college scouts had done at Clark. In track meets, Kit began to break meet records, then national records, then world records. He trained for the ten-sport decathlon events and was looked upon as the coming champion. A light-heavyweight boxer his freshman year, he went into the heavyweight class by his senior year, and dominated each division, remaining undefeated. This interested promoters and professional managers. They told him he could have a future in the boxing ring. As with the football scouts, he put them off politely.

His courses-particularly zoology-and such subjects as botany, fascinated him. He was learning scientific fact about the plants and animals he had always known.

College was not all studies and sports. There was an active social life, as on any college campus. Kit's activities kept him busy, but he went to dances and parties. Girls were attracted to him, and were surprised to find him shy and modest, and uneasy with them. He had no knowledge about girls, either from the jungle, from Clark Academy, or from Clarksville. He had a strange old-world courtesy that charmed the co-eds, but he had no romances those first two years. Too busy perhaps; or waiting for someone. Who? He didn't know.

He had an inkling of 'who' during Christmas vacation in his third year. By this time, magazines, television, and newspapers had made his face familiar. Traveling home by bus, he tried to sleep, but autograph hunters and fans made this impossible. 'When he reached the Carruthers' home, the neighbors' children filled the yard, waiting to see him. Bessie and Ephraim were as proud as peacocks. There was a Christmas Eve dance at the country club, and they were anxious to show off their famous nephew. He hesitated. That place had been off limits to him in the first months because of Guran, and he had always refused to go after that. But his aunt and uncle were so proud and happy, that he felt he must go to please them.

A crowd surrounded him at the bar while he drank fruit juice. The place was decorated with colorful seasonal decorations and pine trees covered with flashing colored bulbs. Music came from the next room where the couples were dancing. Kit was bored and needed sleep, but was polite and courteous to all the questions. A slim dark- haired girl was brought to him by smiling Aunt Bessie. She was sixteen or seventeen, simply dressed, with a shy smile on perfect lips. She was the most beautiful girl Kit had ever seen.

"Do you know who this is?" asked Aunt Bessie gaily, shouting above the hubbub of music and voices.

Kit looked at her intently. There had been so many pretty girls at all the games and meets, quick introductions, short dances, endless crowds of pretty girls, but none like this one.

"I'm sorry," he started to say.

"You've stopped running away from home," she said. "Have you shot anything else with your bow and arrow?" Her voice was low and pleasant, and she had a silvery laugh as she saw his confusion about her.

"Oh, silly boy, this is Diana Palmer, don't you remember?" said Aunt Bessie.

The little girl with the lisp, missing two front teeth. A big red ribbon in her hair. The black panther. She lived in the next town, but he hadn't seen her since that day.

"How you've grown," he said.

"So have you," she said, looking at the young giant.

She had been only eight years old when he saved her life on that dramatic afternoon. The shock of the event had blocked most of it from her mind, so she remembered very little. What she did remember was what she heard from her parents and other people and what she read later in the old newspaper accounts her mother had saved. From time to time, she would have glimpses of Kit in the street or at a movie, but he never noticed her. After all, he was a big boy, but she followed his sports career avidly while he was at Clark and later at Harrison. She was thrilled every time she saw his picture in the paper or heard people discussing him. Without realizing it, she had been in love with him as long as she could remember. He was her Prince Charming, though she somehow never expected to meet him.

But because of his success in sports, she became interested herself. She became proficient in horseback riding and tennis, and would soon have a pilot's license. Most of all, she enjoyed swimming. At her school, swimming and diving were a specialty because the swimming coach had been an Olympic record holder. From twelve years old on, Diana was under his tutelage. She soon excelled in racing, spurred on by Kit's constant publicity. But her specialty was diving. Her coach recognized her ability and pleasure in diving-the two necessary ingredients-and devoted much time to her. She began to win ribbons and trophies and was headed for Olympic competition one day in the near future, where she would be a gold medal champion.

Kit remembered the little girl who had come upon him and Guran on the bank. "You were both stark naked," she said with her silvery laughter. He also had the painful memory of the little girl sobbing and choking, dragging herself on her knees away from the crouching black panther. The little girl in his arms, racked with sobs. Now, she was in his arms again as they danced on this Christmas night, and her lovely body was shaking again, this time with laughter as she recalled how he and Guran had grabbed for their loincloths.

Kit was no longer bored and no longer sleepy. They danced and ate together, and he saw her every night during that vacation. At the end of this time, she knew little more about his background than she had at the start, for he spoke sparingly about his homeland. He only mentioned quickly that his mother had died and his father lived alone somewhere. But she learned a good deal about him, his modesty, quick wit, and courtesy. She glimpsed a strong inner core in this young man, a character of steel that she respected and admired, and now knew she had loved almost from the first moment they'd met. As for Kit, he was waiting for someone. He had found her. Diana.

She was in her last year of secondary school, at an Eastern girls' school, so they saw little of each other during the following months. But she continued to follow his career intently in the newspapers. That summer, they had a few weeks together before Diana went to Europe with her mother. They spent these warm June days swimming or canoeing on a nearby lake, and had occasional picnics with school friends on the grassy banks of the Mississippi. There was an Olympic-size swimming pool at a small college near Clarksville and they went there to practice diving from the high board. Kit was proficient at this, having had lessons from his father. But Diana's form was nearing perfection. She had all the style and control of the Olympic gold medalist she would shortly become. If her form on a diving board was almost perfection, her form in a bikini was absolute perfection, the kind of figure young men dream about. Being a young man, Kit did dream about Diana, both awake and asleep, but the dream was always troubled by the uncertainty and mystery of his own future.

She went away, promising to see him as soon as she returned in the fall, and leaving a new kind of emptiness in his life. Then he went to the north woods to a summer job he had secured through the Forest Service as a ranger. It was the first chance he'd had to get back into the woods, and he gloried in it. It was an outdoor life, days on horseback, nights before a campfire, sleeping in a pup tent or under the stars. Memories of the old life in the jungle came back strongly that summer.

But he was back at Harrison for early football practice and his senior year began.

Now, as Kit once again raced over the nation's gridirons and tracks, he reached the status of a national sports idol. His face was on magazine covers; his name was a household word among sports fans everywhere. News of this even reached the Deep Woods, bringing a letter from his father that repeated simply: "Don't forget your books." That faraway world was dim to him now. He was so much a part of this one. Thanks to Kit and his teammates, tiny Harrison U.'s enrollment had tripled. A huge expansion program of classroom buildings and dormitories was under way, and a giant new stadium was rising on the edge of town.

A startling thing happened one day in the early spring. Boxing's Heavyweight Champion of the World was passing through the town, on his way to a major fight. Because of the scheduling, his managers planned that he would stop over at the town and have a workout at Harrison's gym. There were several sparring partners along with the famous champion. But the manager and his party had heard about Harrison's great athlete, Kit Walker, who among other things held the Intercollegiate heavyweight boxing title. Kit was almost as celebrated as the real champion, and the manager decided it would be great publicity if his man could box a round with the college wonder boy.

Kit was not eager for this, as it meant missing a botany lab class, but he agreed when the publicity office asked him to do it as a favor to the school. Word got around campus that Kit would face the champion. It also reached the radio, television, and news sources, and the gym was filled to capacity. What was supposed to be a quiet workout had turned into an exciting event.

The champion was amused by all the excitement and his manager was delighted. The idea had been publicity. He noted the television cameras, microphones, and flash cameras with satisfaction. The coming fight needed publicity. This might do it. "Take it easy on the college boy," he told the Champ. The Champ nodded and grinned. College boy or not, he intended to look good in front of this crowd and these cameras.

A regulation ring had been set up in the center of the gym. There were temporary bleachers on four sides, and the balcony above. The big gym, used for basketball as well as other sports, seated 5,000 people, and every seat was filled, plus spectators packed on the stairs and in the aisles. The entire school and town had turned out. The Champ entered the ring first. He was greeted with loud applause by the friendly audience. He waited impatiently in the ring with his manager and handlers. Where was Kit? You don't keep the champion waiting. Was he afraid? The crowd buzzed. Then Kit bounded into the gym and bounced over the ropes. The crowd roared. The Champ noticed with annoyance that this roar was twice as loud as his own greeting. "Excuse me," said Kit trying to lace his own gloves. "I had a botany exam. I came as quickly as I could."

"That's flowers," explained the manager to the Champ. The Champ grunted. "He'll need them."

"Now take it easy," said the manager. "This is only a workout."

"Sure," said the Champ. Kit's easy manner had irritated him. An amateur didn't box every day with a worlds' champion. A smart college kid. And all his smart college friends out there, cheering for the college boy to "knock him flat!" Were they kidding?

Kit's college coach helped with the gloves, a teammate laced Kit's shoes, and he was ready. The boxing coach called for silence, and announced the event through a microphone. "Let's pretend we're at Madison Square Garden," he said, and the crowd laughed. "On my right, the heavyweight champion of the world." The champion bowed, and the crowd cheered. There were a few boos. The champion scowled. "In this corner, our own Kit Walker." The crowd exploded, a tremendous ovation. The Champ gritted his teeth. They were all pulling for that smart college kid. And besides, the champion was always presented last, not first. "This is a workout for the Champ and his coming match," said the coach. "Let's hope he takes mercy on our own Kit, we need him." The crowd laughed, the others cleared the ring, and someone rang a bell, also causing a laugh.

The Champ eyed his opponent carefully. He was big and powerful, but so were most heavyweights. And he moved well. Okay, he told himself. Let's go. They sparred easy. Kit had no intention of making a fight of it. This was a favor, a workout for the professional fighter. The cameras were on them. The Champ noted this as he circled Kit. He suddenly lashed out, a sharp blow that Kit only partially blocked. Then another, knocking him against the ropes. The manager chewed his cigar nervously. What was his Champ trying to prove with a college boy? The crowd watched, not yet realizing this fight was for real. Kit wasn't quite sure about that either. But in a clinch, the Champ hit him viciously just below the belt and muttered, "Come on, college boy." Kit reacted instantly. He broke away, but began to weave and circle, blocked a hard block, and hit the Champ hard. The Champ shook his head and grinned. "Is that all you can do college boy?" He sneered, and slammed hard at Kit, knocking him toward the ropes. Kit danced away. This man was tougher than anyone he had ever faced. The World Champion. But he had a feeling that amazed him. He felt he could handle this man. He hit back, and they began to slug at each other, toe-to-toe in the ring.

The crowd began to roar. The manager yelled from the sidelines. But there was no stopping the Champ. He realized now that this college boy was no easy mark. He was tough and strong and skillful. So was the Champ. He belted Kit again, and during a quick clinch, muttered an obscenity in his ear. It had to do with his mother. Kit remained cool. He could control the killer in himself now. But his fists exploded on the Champ's jaw and the Champ staggered to his knees. As the manager tried to break through to the ropes to stop them, several collegians barred the way. "He wants a fight," they yelled. "Let them fight."

It was rare for this champion even to have one knee on the mat, and the fact was duly recorded by all the television and newspaper reporters. But that was not all. He bounded to his feet, determined to finish this college upstart. Kit belted him hard in the stomach, a tremendous blow that could be heard all the way to the botany lab, and the crowd groaned with it. As the Champ doubled up in pain, Kit landed three times on his jaw, his fists moving like trip-hammers. The Champ fell like one of the tall oaks Kit had chopped the previous summer. He hit the canvas with a loud thump. There was a silence in the big gym. No one had ever knocked the Champ down, much less out. And out he was. Kit helped the panicked manager and others carry him over the ropes from the ring. Then he waited while a campus doctor hurriedly examined the unconscious Champ in silence. The Champ opened his eyes and growled. The doctor talked to him. He was groggy, but okay. Kit, waiting anxiously at the ropes, smiled at that. The watching crowd now broke loose. If sound waves could really raise the rafters, the roof would have flown off that day. They roared and screamed and screeched and yelled. Also, they laughed. Their own Kit had beaten the Champion of the World, beaten him good!

The nation's television viewers watched the short match in sixty million living rooms that night. The world press reported the event, with full pages of action photos.

When Kit came out of the shower in the locker room, the manager was waiting for him, with a contract. The Champ's coming match was to be postponed until he recovered from this workout. As for Kit, the sky was the limit, the manager assured him. He could make millions. Kit thanked him, but said he wasn't interested in a professional career of that sort. Before the Champ left the gym, he insisted upon seeing Kit. All watched this meeting anxiously. Kit was wrapped only in a towel. Photographers were at hand, recording every moment. Microphones listened, television cameras watched. The Champ's face was bruised and his jaw was swollen.

"Sam says you turned down his offer," he said, glancing at the nervous manager at his side. "I don't know why, but I'm glad of that. You're too much," he grinned, and put out his hand. Kit smiled and shook his hand, and the crowd shouted its approval.

The publicity of the fight worried Kit. He hoped it would not reach his father in the Deep Woods, and give the Twentieth the idea that he was forgetting his books.

CHAPTER 10

THE SCHOOLBOY WONDER

With Guran no longer waiting at the house for him, Kit began to remain at the academy after school hours to watch the teams practicing. The track and football teams were on the playing fields outside. Boxing, wrestling, and fencing teams worked out in the gym. He watched them all, comparing their techniques with those he'd learned in the Deep Woods.

But he did not participate in anything, still uncertain about his acceptance by his classmates. One afternoon, he was fascinated to see an archery lesson in progress on the school lawn. It was a class of seniors, run by Mr. Hobbes, Kit's English literature teacher who was also the school's track coach. Mr. Hobbes was an archery enthusiast, and during summer vacations went into the north woods or the Western mountain country to hunt with bow and arrow.

Kit sat on the grass and watched. He was surprised by the size of the long bows and the straight steel-tipped arrows. Quite different from the crude pygmy weapons he had grown up with. He was amused by the awkwardness of the big boys, and by their lack of skill. But he hid his amusement behind an impassive expression. Mr. Hobbes, in his demonstration, was not bad at it, Kit decided, though he wouldn't last long in the jungle. Too slow and inaccurate. That night, Kit thought about those beautiful big bows and arrows and longed to try one. The next afternoon, he returned to watch them again. Mr. Hobbes had noticed him and was pleased to see him. He was curious about this somber boy from the jungle who rarely spoke in his class but learned quickly.

Near the end of the class, Mr. Hobbes called to Kit, asking him if he'd like to try. Kit hesitated. The seniors, seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, looked at him with interest and no hostility. They'd heard about this strange boy, but as upper classmen, had no contact with him. Kit's eagerness to hold the bow overcame his shyness, and he grasped it with obvious delight. If only Guran could be here to see this beautiful bow! It was twice as long as the bows he had used. It was strung tightly, but so were the pygmy bows.

"Maybe that is too hard for you," said Mr. Hobbes. "I can adjust it to a lighter pull."

"No, it's okay," said Kit, using an expression he had heard in the schoolyard.

He flexed the bow several times, then examined the arrow, holding it horizontally extended from his eye to observe its trueness. Beautiful. Mr. Hobbes watched him sharply. As an archer, he recognized the experienced feel that Kit was showing. Then Kit threaded the arrow in the bow and took his stance facing the target a hundred feet away.

"You can get closer if you want," suggested Mr. Hobbes.

"This is okay," said Kit.

He bent the bow in a wide arc, as far as it would bend. Mr. Hobbes and the seniors stared. They knew the tough quality of this bow, and how hard it was to bend. This slim seventh grader was stronger than he looked. Then Kit released the arrow. It hid the outer edge of the bull's-eye. All applauded, but he turned in annoyance to Mr. Hobbes.

"May I try another?" he asked. "I'm not used to this bow."

Amazed, Mr. Hobbes handed him another arrow. Once more, the bow was bent into the wide arc. Twang! Bull's-eye, dead center.

More applause.

"Fantastic!" said Mr. Hobbes. "Can you do that again?"

Kit nodded. He did it five more times. All bull's-eyes, the arrows bunched in a tight clump.

"That's the most perfect shooting I've ever seen," said Mr. Hobbes enthusiastically. "It's remarkable!"

"Not so remarkable," said Kit thoughtfully. "I've been using a bow ever since I learned to walk, since I was two, or three."

They all sat on the grass.

"What did you shoot? Tell us about it," said Mr. Hobbes.

The biggest animal he'd ever killed was a wild boar that had charged out of the bushes at him one day when he was hunting with Guran, he told them. But he had shot many smaller animals-for food, he added quickly-he did not hunt for sport in the jungle. Mr. Hobbes and the boys were fascinated. They wanted to hear more, but Kit had talked enough that day. He said he had to go home to do his homework. "English lit.," he added, smiling at Mr. Hobbes.

That afternoon broke the ice for Kit. He had a few more sessions with the archery class. Word spread about his ability and the student audience grew each day- among them, his classmates from the seventh grade. They watched his amazing shooting and his easy camaraderie with the seniors and Mr. Hobbes. Now, in the cafeteria and the schoolyard, Kit no longer sat alone. He was sought after by many boys in other grades as well, and friendly rivalry developed as to who would sit with this interesting boy.

Kit had flexed the bow, but he had not yet really flexed his muscles. That came one day when he wandered into the playing field to watch the track and football teams at work. Mr. Hobbes, the coach, was the first to get him involved. He invited him to join the runners in the sprints and the longer runs. When Kit agreed, Mr. Hobbes told him he could find some track shoes or sneakers in the locker room, as well as a track suit.

Kit removed only his jacket, shirt, socks and shoes, running barefoot on the cinder track. And he ran like a deer that first day. Even the football players working in the center of the big field stopped to watch him.

The milers were getting in shape that day, and Kit joined them, eight times around the big oval. The coach timed them casually with a stopwatch. Time wasn't important yet. Training had just begun. But when Kit lapped the others at the halfway mark and raced on, his long hair flying like a mane, other runners and football players alike crowded around the track coach and his stopwatch. They began to shout encouragement to Kit as he raced by. When he finished the laps and walked over to the group, untired and breathing easily, they stared at him.

"This stopwatch must be broken," said Mr. Hobbes. Kit examined it with interest.

"You were timing me. If I had known that, I would have run faster."

Later the stopwatch was checked. It was not broken. It was accurate.

"It would appear," said the coach, his eyes bugging slightly, "that this schoolboy ran a second slower than the world's record. And according to him, he wasn't even trying.

Such news gets around. A crowd was out to watch Kit run the next day. But he was watching javelin practice. He asked if he might try. He knew about this. They gave him the javelin. With an easy swing, he threw it into the stands, farther than anyone at Clark Academy had ever done. Then he tried everything the team offered. Discus, high jump, broad jump, and sprints. He excelled in all the events. Obviously, the new boy was a phenomenal athlete.

The football coach, Mr. Hackley, reached out for him. Kit was unfamiliar with the game, but after watching a few scrimmages, joined in, again barefoot. Receiving the ball, he sped to the goalpost without a hand touching him. On a second try, he drove right through the line, where an open hole was supposed to be. But wasn't. That didn't stop him. He moved like a racing tank, bowling over teammates and opponents alike and made another touchdown. He trotted over to the coach, smiling, for he enjoyed this rough-and-tumble game.

"Was that all right?" he asked.

Mr. Hackley nodded blankly, his mouth hanging open in amazement. This boy wasn't real.

Kit remained with the football team, but also took time out for boxing and wrestling, two sports he knew and enjoyed. No one at the school knew either judo or karate, so he taught them. His prowess at sports increased ~his popularity with his classmates, and this acceptance made him happy and lessened his loneliness. He hadn't forgotten the Deep Woods, and wrote to his parents every week. He had not told them about running away. Why worry them, now that it was all over? He told them about the fun he was having on the teams. His father's letter was to be expected: "Don't forget your books." The letters from home, with the exotic stamps, intrigued Bessie and Ephraim, as well as the boys at school, some of whom saved stamps. Kit didn't tell them the letters were written by torchlight in a cave, and carried by fast relay runners to the seaport. That would be hard to believe. But Kit took his father's advice, and worked as hard on his books as on his teams.

When the practice period was over, and the games and meets began, fame came quickly to Clark Academy and their star athlete whom some dubbed, "The Schoolboy Wonder." He ran like a whirlwind through the schoolboy teams, still barefoot. As the ground became harder and colder, Mr. Hackley convinced him to wear shoes. Kit settled for sneakers. In the indoor track meets that winter, he broke a dozen junior records in the sprints and longer runs, and in several field events such as javelin, broad jump, pole vault, and discus. In boxing and wrestling, he was unbeaten in his division.

It is not too surprising that Kit excelled in these sports. From the moment of his first steps in the Deep Woods, he had had rigorous daily physical training so that his body development and coordination were superb. Boxing and wrestling were good for Kit. Here he learned to fight for sport rather than for survival. It amused him when the school paper's sports column described him as having a "killer instinct" in the ring. He no longer tried to kill, only to win, as the ship's captain had advised so long ago.

One day in the late autumn, a terrible thing happened at the Clarksville zoo. The black panther had turned on his keeper, badly mangling him, and had escaped from its cage. Kit remembered the animal from his earlier visits to the zoo, the glittering yellow eyes, the restless beast prowling in its cage, stalking everyone who passed by. And he recalled that the keeper's own words were, "Look at those eyes! Crazy! He's a killer. Loves to kill. Never turn your back on him." Evidently, the keeper had forgotten his own advice. He had turned his back momentarily while cleaning the cage and the animal had leaped upon him. He had been taken to the hospital in critical condition, and the killer was loose on the town.

The news created an instant furor in Clarksville. The schools were uncertain whether to keep the children there or send them home. Most of them decided on the latter course and told their children to rush straight home. The children didn't need to be told twice. Many of them had seen the black panther in its cage, and there was no loitering that day or stopping at the corner candy store.

The police and firemen spread across the town, searching. The streets were empty as tradesmen shut their shops and people in automobiles headed for their garages. Shotguns and rifles and handguns were taken from closets as people anxiously watched their yards. It was a frightening thing to have this creature loose in the town.

Several dogs in the park near the zoo were the first victims. They went after the big black cat, perhaps not realizing it was different from the cats they usually chased. After all, it looked like a cat, and smelled like one. Two were destroyed at once. A third managed to escape, badly mauled. Then the black beast vanished into the thick bushes.

Police moving with the keepers carefully searched through the area. They carried heavy nets and guns but the keeper's advice was to shoot on sight. It would be difficult to take this big cat alive.

Kit had been on the way to an archery class with Mr. Hobbes when the news came. Everyone in the school was promptly dismissed and told to go home at once. Kit rushed off with the bow and a quiver of steel-headed arrows over his shoulder. In the excitement, no one at the school noticed this. Alone, he prowled the empty streets. Houses were shut tight and frightened faces peered through the windows. An occasional adult or child dashed breathlessly to a house and hurried inside. A policeman shouted at Kit to go home. He nodded and went on. He finally reached the park. All the nursemaids and baby carriages had long since fled. Even the usual bums sunning on the benches were gone. A few police and keepers moved in the distance, carefully combing the bushes.

Kit found the dead dogs that had been killed by the panther. The sight did not disturb him. He had seen jungle kills before. He looked about quickly, trying to guess the direction the panther might have gone. There were thick bushes on two sides. The police were moving through them. On a third side, there was a low wall with bushes and a lawn beyond. This was a school for girls. He knelt near the slain animals which were within a few yards of each other. There were tiny flecks of blood among the pebbles, barely noticeable. He visualized the drops falling from the claws or fangs of the panther as it raced away. Bending down close to the path, he followed the flecks. They led directly to the wall. On the wall, he found a faint smear. The panther had leaped over the wall, lightly touching it. He looked about for the keepers and police, but they had disappeared into the bushes.

He climbed over the wall, and carefully examined the ground beyond. It was lawn, worn away in some places with patches of dirt or dust. It was not difficult for Kit to follow the panther's trail. Its claws dug slightly into the grass and dirt as it sped over the open ground. The trail led over a hill toward a clump of bushes and trees near a group of brick buildings. This was the girls' school, and as he moved cautiously toward it, he was alarmed to see the big doors open and the young girls pour out. This was one school that had not sent the children home at once, having decided they'd be safer there. But so many phone calls came from anxious parents that they finally decided to send the girls out with strict orders to go directly home.

Kit ran toward them. Some deep instinct coming out of his training told him he was near his prey. It was an almost subconscious tightening of muscles, a sudden increase in alertness and a quickening of breath and heartbeat as his adrenals pumped into his bloodstream. It was a familiar feeling, common to hunters and hunted in the jungle.

There was a scream from the girls. Some of them were running under a huge oak tree. They were looking up, screaming as they ran. Several fell down on the path. Above them on a big branch, partially concealed by brown autumn leaves was the black panther. It was crouched, ready to leap.

Teachers and students on the steps, in the doorway, and at the windows, all screamed. Girls in their uniforms of blue-black skirts and white shirts, ran in all directions, their braids flying. Books and papers fell to the ground as they bumped into each other in their panic. Perhaps it is fair to say there was only one cool head at that moment: the hunter's.

In a motion so fast it was almost a blur; Kit pulled an arrow from his quiver and threaded it into the bow. Then the panther leaped, a bloodcurdling snarl coming from its open jaws.

The long bow was bent in a wide arc. Then ... twang! The steel-headed arrow met the panther in midair striking it in the side. The beast crashed to the ground only a few feet from several fallen girls. But it was not dead. It whirled, furious, on the ground, trying to grasp the arrow in its jaws. The nearest girl on the ground started to crawl away frantically. During these split seconds, the panther managed to get the arrow in its teeth and jerk it out. Then it crouched, panting from exertion, dripping red foam from its jaws. The "crazy" yellow eyes darted from side to side as the girls screamed and ran, and crawled in all directions. It was at its most dangerous now, a wounded animal at bay. Not far from it, one young girl was having trouble moving away. She had twisted her ankle and was crying and in pain as she tried to move on one foot, and knee, and hands. She could be the first victim, and this beast could move among the children like a tornado, destroying a dozen in moments. Now it made a tentative move toward the hobbling girl. She screamed in terror, but a figure flashed between her and the panther. Again, the bow was in a wide arc. The crazy eyes focused on the upright figure, the jaws widening, and with a bloodcurdling roar, it leaped at him. Twang! The steel-headed shaft drove a foot into the beast's body, through the heart, cutting into the spine. And the panther dropped like a rock, stone-dead.

For moments that seemed endless, the entire crowd of onlookers, girls and teachers, were silent, frozen by the utter terror of the scene. It was during this silence that Kit picked up the girl, her little body shaking with sobs.

"It's all right. Don't cry. He can't hurt you now," he said.

With the girl in his arms, he turned to the crowd. "He's dead," he said. There was an outcry of relief from everyone. Some of the students wept, still terrified by the event. But girls and teachers alike swarmed around Kit, carefully avoiding the beast on the path. Several women took the weeping girl from his arms, and a fat woman with a big pile of white hair, silver pince-nez glasses, and an enormous bosom, embraced him.

"Oh you wonderful boy, you wonderful boy," she said, laughing and sobbing. She was the headmistress of the school. Other teachers crowded about him, patting him on the back, shaking or kissing his hand. He endured it stoically, not trusting himself to speak yet. For tension and fear had gripped him violently, and now that it was over, his body trembled. He hoped no one would notice.

The teachers called their students back into the building. There was no reason to go home now. The headmistress asked him to come into her office for tea. He nodded and said he would join her in a few moments. He walked over to the dead panther. A few of the school children and teachers watched him from the steps and from the windows.

The beast was lying in a pool of its own blood, lips curled up over white fangs, the yellow eyes open, no longer "crazy." This type of big cat was never friendly, he knew. But what had made it so abnormally vicious? Suspicious, evasive, stalking.... Someone, a trapper, a dealer, or a keeper had mistreated it badly when it was small, so much so that it feared all beings with the human scent. He tugged at the arrow. It wouldn't come out. The first arrow, chewed in half, was still in its side. This worried him. He had taken the equipment without permission. Would Mr. Hobbes be angry with him, he wondered. He knew the archery sets were Hobbes's private property and did not belong to the school. Oh well, he thought, as he walked away from the panther, arrows didn't cost too much. He could replace them.

He refused the headmistress's offer of tea, but accepted a glass of milk. She then wanted him to come to the auditorium where the student body and faculty were waiting to greet him. But he couldn't face this, and excused himself, saying he had to get back to school. He walked between rows of admiring teachers and students in the corridor, then ran down the stairs. A garbage truck was standing on the path, and the men were lifting the panther.

"Wow, a heavy one. How much you figure?"

"Three hundred pounds anyhow," said the other one.

"Heard a kid shot him with that arrow."

"Wow."

They tossed the body on the truck. Kit trotted after the truck as far as the school gates. He felt remorse for the animal lying on top of the garbage. It was an ignoble end for the powerful creature. He ran all the way to the school, and went down to the locker rooms to return the bow. The school was almost empty, having been dismissed-but a few were still there, among them Mr. Hobbes.

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Hobbes, that I borrowed the bow. Two of the arrows are gone, but I'll pay for new ones."

The news of Kit's feat bad already reached them. They stared at him.

"Two arrows ... gone?" Hobbes managed to stammer. "Gone?"

"I had to use them," he replied. "How much are they? I'll bring the money tomorrow."

Hobbes put his arms around Kit. "My boy," he said. "My boy, my boy." He was too moved to say anything else.

When Kit reached home, there were neighbors, newsmen, cameras, and microphones on the porch. Inside, the phone was ringing constantly and Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were bursting with pride and excitement. They embraced the boy, as the newsmen and newscasters made a rush for him. He answered their questions briefly, stood with his aunt and uncle for the cameras, then ran up to his room where he fell upon his blankets on the floor, drained and exhausted. He fell asleep at once and did not move for many hours.

He awoke when it was dark, and was amazed he had slept so long. He had not know how tired he was. Then he realized that tension and fear had drained him. The memory of his fear worried him. Except for the time he had killed the wild boar-and Guran and the others were with him-he had never faced death before. And he had never known real fear before. Deep down, was he a coward? Did his father ever feel fear? He brooded and worried about this, and wrote his father about this.

His father replied, by letter, that he always felt fear when facing real danger, that all men did, unless they were stone drunk, or lying, and that fear was part of nature's equipment for survival. "Fear and anger come from the same wells in your body," he wrote, "and in all my experience, intelligent living things are aware of both. Fear for flight, anger for attack, and often a combination of both. Yes, Kit, all men know fear. I have been afraid many times. Some are childish, are foolish enough not to admit it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Aunt Bessie wrote us about your archery feat. Mother and I are proud of you, though Mother was upset. She didn't think you'd run into a black panther in Clarksville on the banks of the Mississippi. (Neither did I.)" The letter was signed with his father's "good mark"-the symbol of the ring on his left hand-"closer to the heart."

But that letter would come a bit later. That night, when he awoke from his sleep of exhaustion, the phone was still ringing, and people were still babbling on the porch. He crept down the back stairs and entered the empty kitchen. He was hungry, and took milk and fruit from the refrigerator. Aunt Bessie entered, her eyes shining.

"You're awake. Poor boy, you must have been so tired. Oh Kit, do you know who that little girl was you picked up, the one you saved?"

He shook his head, munching on an apple.

"Her mother's a dear friend of mine, and she says her little girl knows you. Her name is Diana Palmer."

Now he remembered, the little girl who had found him on the bank of the swimming hole with Guran.

"Is she okay?" he asked.

"A sprained ankle, that's all," said Aunt Bessie. "Oh Kit, so many people are waiting to see you."

The town rang with Kit's feat for weeks. Unfortunately, there had been no cameras during the actual event, but the story was mentioned from coast to coast. It was the first time the name Kit Walker had been seen. It was not the last time.

Life returned to normal as he went back to his routine of classes, sports, and homework. It wasn't quite the same as before. He had become a town hero, and everyone in Clarksville knew him. People nodded and smiled at him when he walked through the street. People standing by the fence, watering their lawns, or working in their gardens waved and chatted. It was a warm, good feeling, as though he had been born and raised there, as though they had known him all his life. All his anxieties, fears and loneliness were at rest now. Though he had an occasional pang of missing his parents, he was content and happy in Clarksville.

Then one day, a letter came from the Deep Woods. There weren't many. The last one had been weeks before, about the black panther. He opened this one eagerly. Then he crumpled it and dropped it to the floor, and went to his room where he remained locked in for several days, refusing any food. The brief note from his father said simply that his mother had died suddenly of jungle fever. The end had come while she was asleep. She had no pain. The letter told him to stay in Clarksville, as there was no reason for him to return now. Behind his locked door, Kit wept, no schoolboy wonder, but a lonely, unhappy child. Beautiful mother. Like a jungle animal that crawled into hiding when it was hurt, Kit had to be alone with this pain. When he came from his room, thin and red-eyed, he accepted his aunt and uncle's condolences silently, and talked no more about it.

CHAPTER 9

THE NEW HOME

The Carruthers home was a large white frame house surrounded by a green lawn, flower bushes, big trees and a white picket fence. It was on a shaded quiet street with other houses with lawns and picket fences. The Carruthers were not wealthy, but they were what is known as "comfortable," and they moved in the leading society of Clarksville, Missouri, a city of 50,000 people sprawled on the banks of the wide lazy brown Mississippi River.

Kit had a large airy room on the second floor. The Carruthers had a small room for Guran in the basement next to the furnace. Kit insisted firmly that Guran share his room on the second floor, annoying Uncle Ephraim. To keep the peace, Aunt Bessie prevailed, and Guran moved in with Kit. It was difficult enough for the Carruthers to adjust to their unusual nephew. As for Guran-he would have been a rarity in any town or village in Bangalla-but in the Carruthers' white-frame house, he was a phenomenon: a wild pygmy from the Deep Woods, an expert in the preparation and use of deadly poisons, who spoke only his own language which sounded like grunts and coughs to the people of Clarksville.

Though Guran had learned to read and write with Kit in the Deep Woods during those classes with beautiful mother, he had little practice in conversation and was too shy to try. Then there was the matter of the beds. A second cot was put in Kit's room, and Aunt Bessie was surprised and pleased to find them made up each morning after Kit left for school. After a few days, she was amazed to learn that they didn't use the beds. They put extra blankets on the floor and slept on them.

"Why on the floor, for heaven's sake?" she asked.

Kit explained that Guran was used to sleeping on a straw mat on the ground, and that in the Skull Cave he slept on an animal skin on the rock floor. He had always done this, and found beds with mattresses too soft and uncomfortable. Uncle Ephraim found this outrageous. "Sleep on the floor?" he said. "They're animals. They should sleep in the stable." But then, almost everything about Kit irritated Uncle Ephraim. As for Guran, he refused to discuss "the little savage" or to have him at their dinner table. So Kit also refused to eat dinner with his Aunt and Uncle, and ate in the kitchen with Guran.

It was a difficult time for everyone in the Carruthers house, and Kit wondered about his parents' wisdom in sending him there. He knew the Carruthers were good people, but their way of life was so different from the Deep Woods. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, things would get better.

Aunt Bessie had bought a modest wardrobe for both Kit and Guran in New York, accompanied by Uncle Ephraim who protested every purchase as being "too high." Uncle Ephraim was prudent about money. Some called him tight. But Kit still found city clothes uncomfortable, and shorts and a T-shirt were as far as he would go, while Guran followed suit.

They had reached Clarksville at the end of the summer, in time for the new school term. Though all of the town had heard about the new arrivals, the Carruthers did not introduce them or take them to such places as their church or country club. This was due to Kit's insistence that Guran accompany him everywhere, and no one of Guran's color had ever entered either the church or the country club. So Kit was denied the blessings of the church and the pleasures of the country club, for the time being. Kit, for all his surface calm, was nervous and uncertain. This was all new and he was only twelve. Guran had been his companion since he could crawl. He had a protective feeling about this shy little man, who was completely lost in this strange world. The Carruthers had reserved a place for Kit in a local private boys' school, Clark Academy. This was a day school, where Kit would attend classes and return home each day to eat and sleep. Guran went with him the first few days until they had surveyed the place, then both agreed it was best for Guran to wait at home.

Clark Academy covered the primary and secondary school years. He was put through a series of tests to determine his grade, and was placed with other boys of his own age. Thanks to his mother's instructions, he was well-prepared in the academic subjects. His knowledge of languages amazed teachers and students alike.

Some of his other knowledge amazed them as well. History, for example. During his first week of the seventh grade history class, conducted by Mr. Hackley, Clark's football coach, the subject of Alexander the Great came up for discussion.

"What can anyone tell us about Alexander?" he asked.

A bright boy wearing glasses raised his hand.

"Sir, he conquered the whole world. And he cried because there were no more worlds to conquer," he said.

"Correct. Anyone else?" asked Mr. Hackley. At Clark, the boys were required to address all their teachers as 'sir.' Kit raised his hand, memories of lessons in the Skull Cave coming back to him. The class looked curiously at the new boy. This was the first time he had spoken.

"Alexander was not Great. He was a gang lord and he led his mobsters to kill and loot weaker people."

Mr. Hackley and the boys stared at him. Then the boys looked at Mr. Hackley who grinned.

"What an amazing interpretation. Where did you hear that?" he said. "And don't forget your 'sir.'"

"My father told me."

"Sir," said Mr. Hackley.

"Sir," said Kit.

Mr. Hackley laughed, and the boys joined him.

"What else did your father tell you," said Hackley.

"He said . . ."

"Sir," said Mr. Hackley.

"Sir, he said that Alexander the Great was the same as Attila the Hun, only it depended on who wrote about them."

"Attila the Hun," roared Mr. Hackley with great relish. "Oh, that's marvelous. And where did your father learn all these original facts?"

All the boys were grinning and snickering. It was like the time he had been in the woods with a few pygmy boys, and had by mistake picked a bouquet of leaves for his mother that were poisonous and caused a severe rash. He flushed, and faced the sarcastic faces.

"He said it because he knows what is true, and he does not lie," he said firmly.

"Sir," said Mr. Hackley.

"Sir," said Kit.

The boys waited expectantly for more funny comments from Mr. Hackley. But he was a kindly man, not given to baiting his pupils, and he saw that the new boy was tense. He explained that there were many versions of history, and that some might agree with Kit's father, but that in this class he would attempt to teach the more orthodox versions. Kit remained on his feet during this. Something was bothering him.

"Mr. Hackley . . ." he began.

"Sir," said Mr. Hackley.

"Are you a knight? Is that why they call you sir?"

"A knight?" said Mr. Hackley.

"Like the Knights of the Round Table?"

The roar of laughter was interrupted by the bell, ending the class. The boys fled out, still laughing. Knights of the Round Table! Word about it got around, and it was a joke among the faculty and students for some time. That new boy was an odd one.

Kit was not the first foreign student to enter Clark. There had been a few others from Mexico, Canada, South America, and an occasional European boy. But word of his exotic background and behavior had spread. Where was Bangalla? And the sight of Guran added to the boys' interest. Kit was bigger and heavier than most of the boys in his group, but he was a boy, after all, and he had to go through the usual schoolyard trials. This school had its bully, a hulking lad in an upper grade who delighted in roughing up the younger boys. Jackson-that was his name-was also the football team's fullback, wrestling star, and weight lifter. Jackson went after Kit the first day Guran stayed at home. He backed him into a corner of the yard and sneered in his face.

"Afraid to come to school all by your itsy-bitsy self without your black boy?" he said.

The boys crowded around, waiting for Kit to get it, a ritual many of them had gone through with Jackson.

"He's not a boy. He's a man," said Kit evenly. He recognized the menace here. Jackson reminded him of the chief steward on the ship.

"What are you stupid, some kind of half-breed from the Congo?" continued Jackson, also using four-letter swear words which were meaningless to Kit.

"Are you attempting to provoke a fight?" said Kit. Jackson was a bit taller than Kit, and twenty-five pounds heavier. He shouted at Kit's formal English.

"Pro-voke a fight? How can I, with a yellow-bellied coward from the Congo?" Jackson announced to the watching crowd. "Does this pro-yoke you?" he went on, shoving Kit hard so that he fell back against the wall. Kit was like an animal at bay. He looked around at the watching circle of faces. Some were grinning, some were sympathetic. Jackson's face was mean, like a hyena.

"Or this?" continued Jackson, shoving him again so that he fell to one knee.

Kit came out of the crouch like a tiger. His fist cracked into Jackson's stomach, doubling him over. An immediate blow on Jackson's jaw straightened him up, and another blow knocked him to the ground. Blubbering, Jackson struggled to his feet. But Kit was after him like an angry hornet, chopping him down with a karate blow, then another fist hard in the face. The circle of boys stood gaping arid shocked by this ferocious attack. This was not schoolyard fighting. Jackson's jaw was swollen and his nose was bleeding. He was crying incoherently now, but Kit was not finished with him. He grasped the crying boy with both hands and lifted him above his own head. Holding him in the air, he marched the short distance to the six-foot iron picket fence and carefully hung Jackson there by his coat collar, so that his feet dangled, not touching the ground. Then he turned to the watching crowd in a slight crouch, his fists poised, his eyes narrow. The crowd hesitated. A few started to cheer, then stopped. None of them liked Jackson. But these were gently reared boys and the violence of Kit's attack had frightened them. A few lifted Jackson from the fence and took him to the infirmary.

The school's headmaster had been watching from a window. Jackson's bullying was well-known. The headmaster went to the infirmary to make certain the boy's injuries were not serious. There was the matter of the swollen jaw. That would require a little time to heal.

As for Kit, he became a hero to his seventh grade class, many of whom had been through Jackson's torments. Boys in the upper school heard about this phenomenal new boy who beat the tar out of Jackson, then lifted him over his head like a feather and hung him on the fence! But this hero-worship and admiration was from a distance. The new boy was too different. To these small town middle-class boys, he seemed dangerous, like some kind of exotic jungle beast that could be admired only when it was safely behind bars. Kit was shy in this new world, and the boys misunderstood this, thinking he was unfriendly. Kit sat alone in the cafeteria during the lunch hour and pretended to read a book while he ate. And during recess time in the schoolyard, while the others played and laughed and talked, he sat in a corner and pretended to read his books. He was lonely and as his classmates chased each other and shouted about him, he dreamed of the Deep Woods.

Kit was called into the head's office for a brief talk concerning fighting. The headmaster was sympathetic, but firm. Kit nodded.

"I behaved properly. I did not try to kill him," said Kit. He looked at Kit for a moment. The boy's manner was honest and sincere.

"That will be all," said the headmaster, and Kit returned to his class. The headmaster looked out of the window for a long time. What kind of boy was this?

In the weeks that followed, he didn't find out much more. The boy was quiet, and worked hard at his studies. He talked little about himself, and never answered questions about his homeland. He refused efforts of the athletic coaches to coax him onto their school teams and never remained after school to chat in the yard or join the gang at the nearby ice cream parlor. He always rushed home, where Guran was patiently waiting, sitting on the floor of their room like a stone idol.

Clarksville had a small zoo, and Kit and Guran discovered it with shouts of glee. It was one of the few places in the town they liked. The zoo had a few animals from their jungle: two lions, a leopard, a black panther, chimpanzees, two zebras, and monkeys. They greeted them happily, like old friends, and almost climbed into the cages to embrace them. As it was, the keepers were constantly yelling at them to stay away from the bars. This was not necessary since both Kit and Guran knew their animals better than the keepers. But the keepers couldn't be expected to know that. The boys were fascinated with animals that were new to them, such as the grizzly bear. This huge animal- they understood-was more than a match for the biggest jungle cat. They were amazed at the size of its claws and fangs, and delighted when it reared up on its hind legs. Also, the mountain wolves were new to them. Though there were wolves in distant parts of Bangalla, neither had seen one, and Kit was struck by their pale blue eyes and stealth. "They're wild things impossible to tame," a keeper told them. Impossible? thought Kit. He doubted that, remembering the animal-training at Eden. "I'd like to try someday," he told Guran. They sat for hours watching the sleek black panther. Like all of its species, this was a restless, suspicious animal, constantly on the prowl in its cage, stalking every passerby, its yellow eyes glittering.

"Look at those eyes. Crazy," said the keeper. "He's a killer. Loves to kill. Never turn your back on him." The boys knew he was right about this cat, and it would turn out to be unfortunate that the keeper didn't remember his own advice.

One other thing about Clarksville fascinated Kit and Guran. The Mississippi River. It was over a mile wide here, and the boys spent hours on the banks among the willows and reeds watching the long barges move slowly past. One of the first books Kit read at the Carruthers' house was Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn. Guran could read English and they read the century-old adventures of Huck and Tom Sawyer with great delight. They immediately made exciting plans to build a raft and float down the big river, as Huck had done. They never got around to doing this, but they spent many hours at the river. Now and then they took a forbidden swim-forbidden by Aunt Bessie-far out into the channel. Once or twice they swam out to the vast barges that moved freight up and down the river. Naked, they would climb aboard to examine the cargo of coal, chemicals, grain, fertilizer, or crates, until an angry man would yell at them, and sometimes chase them. Laughing they would dive back into the muddy water and wave at the irate man. Several afternoons they would lie on a grassy bank drying after a swim while Kit read aloud from another Twain book, Life on the Mississippi. The life on the river of those times fascinated them, and they waited for hours to see one of the great riverboats with the side paddle wheel. But they saw none. Aunt Bessie explained that the days of the great riverboats were over, and outside of a few excursion boats near the big cities they had almost all disappeared.

The zoo and the river were fun, but Kit remained unhappy in Clarksville. Aunt Bessie was warm and sweet, but Uncle Ephraim was still unfriendly and hard, constantly making snide remarks about Kit's background. Over the weeks, he had told them a little about the Deep Woods and the Skull Cave. Bessie was shocked that her sister actually lived in a cave, surrounded by savages like Guran. Shocked and disappointed, her vision of the rich planter brother-in-law vanishing. And what sort of man was he? Kit refused to talk about hi~ father to them. How could they understand the Ghost Who Walks, the Twentieth Phantom?

Ephraim was more than disappointed. He was angered by the savage, sitting on the floor upstairs, and by this strange nephew who spoke to him only in monosyllables. Jackson's father-the local banker-had a few words with Ephraim about the fight, which made matters worse. More than that, Ephraim complained bitterly about the cost of his boarder.

"Private academy, clothes, and food, not only for him but for that black savage. Does your precious sister living in a cave expect me to support them?"

Kit didn't hear this, but his Uncle's surly manner toward him was obvious. School wasn't much better. Since his fight, the boys kept their distance, still afraid of this strange boy, so that he made no close friends. Also, Guran was restless, and longed to leave, though he had promised to stay at least a month. One night Kit decided to run away.

"Where to?" Guran wanted to know.

"To the Deep Woods," said Kit.

Guran spoke of the long sea voyage. How would they get back? As they came, was Kit's answer. There were other boats.

"Your father and mother will not like it," said Guran.

"They will, when I tell them about Uncle Ephraim." Guran understood that. Though he had not one word of conversation, he understood Ephraim. Still, he tried to persuade Kit to remain. His instructions from the Skull Throne had been to bring Kit to this house, and he knew the Twentieth would not approve of his son running away. He told this to Kit.

"Your father has often said, when you are in a time when life conspires to defeat you, you must not run from it or bow to it, but fight to conquer it." Kit nodded. He had heard the same advice from the same lips but he was not to be put off. Uncle Ephraim and Clark Academy were more than he could stand, and he was determined to leave. Seeing he could not change the boy's decision-and in that he recognized the iron will of the father-Guran agreed to go along. He had no choice. Otherwise Kit would go alone.

They left that very night. They took nothing but Kit's duffel bag, Guran's slim package wrapped in hide and containing his weapons, salt, and matches. They slipped out of the second-story window and dropped quietly onto the lawn below while Bessie and Ephraim slept. Kit left a brief note:


Dear Aunt Bessie, Thank you for your kindness. I must go home now. Good-bye. Kit.

They found the note on Kit's pillow the next morning. Bessie was hysterical and even Ephraim was alarmed. Kit's home was six thousand miles away, across the ocean. He was twelve. It was insane. They notified the police. The search was on. Road blocks were set up; the police stopped passing cars, notified airports and train stations, and sent out circulars. They had a dock photo of Kit and Guran. Newspapers and local television and radio stations carried the news for a few days, but Kit and Guran had disappeared.

There was a large tract of forest near Clarksville and they had instantly headed into it. Police followed part way with bloodhounds. Kit and Guran watched the sniffing dogs with some amusement from the top of high trees. Then they descended, walking through streams again to cover their tracks. They knew how to throw off trackers. You had to know in the jungle, when the cats stalked you.

The two were happily at home in the forest. It was not the same as their jungle, but they found nuts and berries and some roots to eat. They also found chicken yards at the edge of the woods and raided them at night for an occasional fowl. Illegal, of course, but neither knew about that. They found rabbit tracks in the woods, and set up snares on the trails, and were soon roasting rabbit over a campfire. They were perfectly happy, and had discarded all shoes, clothing, and sandals, wearing only their loin- cloths. Plans for finding the Deep Woods were vague. It was over that way, somewhere toward the rising sun.

Their plans were vague and their progress lazy because Guran arranged it that way. He didn't want Kit to get too far from Clarksville. Using the sun and stars to guide them, Guran kept moving them around in a giant circle, returning after a few days to a pool near the edge of the forest. Kit looked at it suspiciously.

"We were here before," he said.

"Were we?" said Guran innocently.

"You know it, Guran," Kit replied angrily. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Why would I do it on purpose?"

"To keep me from going away."

"I cannot lie. It is true, Kit."

"And we have gone for days in a circle?"

"That is also true."

"We will go no longer in a circle. We will go east to the rising sun and the Deep Woods."

"Your father will be angry."

"My mother will be glad."

"She will be glad at first and then angry."

"Guran, if you will not go with me, I will go on from here alone."

"And why would I stay in this strange country without you?"

"Then you will go, with no more tricks?"

They had swam and played in the pool, and now they were lying on a grassy bank drying in the sun.

"I will go with you, Kit," said Guran. "Perhaps the time has come to tell you of the chain."

Kit did not understand.

"What chain?"

"The chain of your father that hangs on the side of his Skull Throne."

Now Kit remembered his questions about that length of chain and his parents' mystifying refusal to tell him about it.

What had his mother said? "Your father put it there to remind him of something when he loses his temper." And she had also said, "That chain was very important to us."

His father had said: "It might be helpful to you to hear it a little later." He remembered it all clearly because that was the moment he learned he was to go to America.

"Tell me, Guran, and then we will go east with no more delay," said Kit, lying back on the grassy bank and chewing on white grass roots.

"This happened before you were born, when I was a small boy," said Guran. "But I heard the tale many times from the Teller of Tales and once from your father's own lips."

"Then tell it," said Kit, impatient to be on his way. And wise little Guran told him.


THE CHAIN

The story begins on an ocean liner bringing Kit's mother across the ocean to marry his father. She was young, blonde and beautiful, and the center of all eyes as she strolled on the deck or entered the dining salon. All the unattached males on the ship, from the captain down, were attracted to the lovely girl.

The other females watched jealously. She did nothing to encourage all this attention, for the poor girl only wanted to be left alone to think about her amazing fiancé, the masked man who was waiting for her at the outskirts of Mawitaan.

One man in particular never stopped watching her. He was a gentleman of obvious importance, traveling incognito with a dozen servants. He had the most sumptuous cabin on the ship and gave large sums of money to the ship's orchestra, waiters, stewards, and barmen. It was rumored that he was a prince of some far-off place, and the rumor was true. He was a tall swarthy man with a face like a hawk, and the cold eyes of a serpent. Or so it seemed to the girl, for those cold eyes were always watching. After a few days at sea, the circle of men about her thinned out. Gossips said that servants of the mystery man had passed among the passengers and crew and advised them to leave the lady alone. The gossips added that when one passenger-a burly blond Swede-refused, he was badly beaten and landed in the ship's infirmary. The story could not be confirmed, because this passenger was not seen for the remainder of the voyage. As it turned out, he was not in the infirmary either. He was nowhere on the ship, and the mystery of his disappearance was never solved. The ocean is a big place and rarely reveals such secrets.

Thus, the lovely blonde lady had some peace and was grateful for it. This did not last long. The circle of admirers was replaced by the mysterious man with the eyes of a serpent. She refused his invitation to sit at his table for dinner, but he was not put off. He followed her relentlessly every time she left her cabin, courting her on the decks, up and down the stairs, in the salons, bars, and card rooms, until she was completely exhausted and angered, and remained in her cabin. It must be said that his proposals were honorable. He had fallen madly in love with the blonde beauty. He finally came to her cabin one night, and his proud hawk face trembled as he asked her to marry him. She kept him in the corridor and spoke through the partially opened door. She told him she was in love, about to be married, and that was that. And would he please oblige her and let her alone. He was insulted and became angry. He began to shout at her, so that other passengers opened their doors. Still, he ranted and screamed at her, pounding on her closed door. A steward came and asked him to leave. He threw the man on the floor. The steward returned with the captain and a few husky sailors. The angry man faced them like a cornered tiger. Then finding he was helpless, he agreed to leave. But, as he turned away, he shouted through the door to the trembling girl that she had not seen the last of him. Thereafter, the captain himself escorted the girl from her cabin for each meal, and back again when she was ready to retire. But it was not necessary, for the angry man remained in his own cabin the remainder of the voyage.

The ship reached Mawitaan, the seaport of Bangalla, late at night, and passengers were permitted to sleep aboard until the following day. She went ashore with an escort consisting of all the ship's officers, but the precaution was unnecessary. The mysterious man and his party had left the ship during the night. There was an escort waiting for her, two men from the Jungle Patrol who had received instructions to meet this lady and take her to a crossroads where the main path into the jungle began. As long as anyone knew, it had been called the Phantom trail, but not many knew why.

Kit's father-to-be-the Twentieth-waited there for his lady. He waited impatiently and anxiously, for he had not seen his loved one for a year. Back in the Deep Woods, great preparations for the wedding were under way, and all the chiefs and leaders of the jungle would attend. The drums had been beating out the news for weeks: The Phantom will take a bride, and there would be week-long celebrations in all the tribal villages for those who did not attend the wedding. Astride Thunder, on a hilltop overlooking the bay, he had seen the ship anchor far below. Now he waited at the arranged meeting place, and became more impatient as the hours passed. His impatience gave way to dismay. Maybe she had changed her mind and was not coming. What else could it be? Finally night came. He had waited since dawn. Unhappy and disappointed beyond belief, he started back to the Deep Woods. He rode back to the hilltop and saw that the big ocean liner had departed. Had she gone with it, or had she not come at all?

But news travels fast in the jungle and he hadn't gotten far when the tom-toms began to beat. There had been an ambush at the edge of the jungle. Two Jungle Patrolmen had been badly wounded, and the lady with them had been carried off. No one knew by whom.

His disappointment turned to fury. He raced back to the main road and climbed the first telephone pole he found. It was now past midnight. Using lineman's equipment he always carried, he cut into the line and woke up the colonel of the patrol, a young officer named Weeks.

Weeks was startled by the deep angry voice of his unknown commander. He told all he knew about the ambush. Both patrolmen were in critical condition. One had been able to say only that the attackers were strangers from a foreign place, that their faces had been covered with scarves and that they had attacked with scimitars. As far as they knew, the lady had not been harmed. There were no clues.

The Phantom was beside himself with fear for the missing girl. He roared through the countryside on Thunder, stopping at every hut, demanding of every farmer and herdsman if they had seen any signs of the abductors. No one had seen anything. It was as though the earth had swallowed them up. Wretched and tormented, he returned to the Deep Woods. All the jungle knew of the tragic happening. The celebration was canceled. In the Deep Woods, the pygmies watched their big friend unhappily as he brooded day after day in his cave. He could not be consoled. What was there to say? Where was she?

The Misty Mountains lie to the east of the jungle. Here is the domain of the mountain princes, a rich feudal aristocracy whose minds and hearts were in the fifteenth century. In these modern times, they lived as absolute rulers in their tiny kingdoms with the power of life and death over their subjects. They were a law unto themselves and usually intermarried. Only on occasion did they bring in a bride from the unpleasant outer world. One who tried to do this was Prince Hakon.

Hakon was the richest and most tyrannical of the mountain lords, he of the hawk like face and cold eyes like a serpent. It was Hakon who had fallen in love at first sight with the beautiful blonde girl on the boat, had pursued her, and vowed never to lose her. His men had ambushed the patrolmen and borne her off in a waiting plane. Despite his liking for feudal customs, Hakon enjoyed modern comforts as well.

The girl was brought before him, in the cold thin air of his mountain palace. It was only then that her silk blind-fold was removed. The poor girl had been terrified by the ambush and the subsequent rough flight, and her heart sank when she saw Hakon.

"I have not brought you here to harm you but to honor you by making you my princess," he said. His voice was warm but his touch was as cold as his pale eyes as he took her hand. She pulled away angrily and threatened him with the law. This amused Hakon who was the law, in this land.

"I will give you time to adjust to this place, and to me," he said confidently, as if that settled the matter. She was borne off by several husky guards, shouting and fighting in a most unladylike manner, for she was not one to weep and faint. Like a princess in a storybook, she was locked in a high tower, and when the sun rose over the mountains she could see the distant jungle, and she knew her love was there.

Day after day, Hakon came to see her, and day after day, she refused him, telling him each time that she loved another man. After a time this angered him, and he said she was lying, that there was no other man, that she could love no other man once she had seen Hakon. Despite her predicament, she laughed at that, which infuriated the arrogant mountain prince. He demanded to know who her love was, and she told him, proudly and happily. The name she used was merely . . . Phantom.

This caused Hakon to consider. As had all the mountain lords, he had heard of the Phantom all of his life, but had assumed he was not a real man but a jungle superstition. Could there be such a person? He would find out. He was anxious to know the truth. If such a person existed, he wanted to bring him to the palace where he could deal with him.

How could he find the man? He asked the girl.

"You don't find him. He finds you," she replied, delighted to speak of her love. He saw the pride in her voice and was determined to find this man wherever he was, and destroy that love. Through his emissaries, he sent word to the tribes that the missing girl of the ambush was a guest in his castle and would soon be his bride. It was his hope that the news would somehow reach her mysterious lover. It did reach him, in the Deep Woods. With a roar he leaped upon Thunder and raced through the waterfall, headed for the Misty Mountains and the palace of Prince Hakon. His bride indeed!

(At this point, Guran stopped his tale. "Have you heard enough, or do you want to move on?" he said slyly. "No," shouted Kit, fascinated with this story about his parents, "Go on ... when does the chain come in?" "Soon," said Guran as he continued.)

The Twentieth knew Hakon by hearsay, a cruel tyrant by all accounts. The word he had received infuriated him, and puzzled him as well. A guest at the castle . .. about to be his bride? Could she be there of her own free will? Had she fallen in love with her captor? Or had the ambush been prearranged by both of them on the boat? For he learned Hakon had been a passenger, and these questions plagued him as he raced up the Misty Mountain trail on Thunder's powerful back.

The palace gates were open when he reached them He did not stop, but rode past the guards, up the broad steps, in through the large open doors. Then across the marble foyer, and up the wide curving marble staircase into the great throne room where Hakon waited on a small golden throne, He was startled by the sight of this big masked man on the huge black stallion, prancing on his parquet floors. The Twentieth had his pistol in hand. And he fired into the glittering crystal chandelier above.

"Where is she?" he roared. In his anger, he had thrown all caution to the winds.

"Up there," said Hakon pointing to the ceiling, and snapping his fingers at the same time. At this signal, guards from both sides fired. Several bullets struck the masked man and he felt off Thunder onto the polished floor.

He lay in a small cell for a month while his wounds healed. The guards had been careful not to kill him, and a doctor cared for him. Hakon didn't want him to die. He had other plans for this lady's masked lover.

When he was well again, he was brought into the courtyard. There was a millstone there, used to grind grain. Two oxen were attached to a long shaft and moved about in a circle, thus turning the heavy millstone and grinding the grain. The oxen were taken away, and the Twentieth was chained in their place. "Move," commanded a guard, flicking a whip at him. He stood still, staring up at the tower. In the high barred window, he saw her for the first time. And she saw him, and cried to him. He struggled with his chains, but they held. He was helpless. The guard flicked the whip again, striking him across the shoulders. He refused to move.

Hakon was watching from a balcony.

"No food or water, until he works," he called, and went back into the palace.

For several days, the masked man refused to work, hut soon thirst, then hunger, forced him to work. Round and round he went, pushing the heavy creaking millstone. The girl watched from the tower. Her tears could not help him, but they did not help Hakon either. He had thought the humiliation of her lover would end her love for him. Such is the thinking of a man like Hakon. It only hardened her further against Hakon, if that were possible.

Now the days turned into weeks. From dawn to dusk, he laboriously pushed the heavy millstone. If he faltered, he was whipped. At night, a dozen guards took him-still chained-a gun at his head, from the millstone to the cell where he slept on the rocky floor. At dawn, back to the millstone. Now the people of the town came up to mock the captive. These mountain people had heard tales of the ancient jungle legend called Phantom, and now they laughed at him, and threw rocks and filth at him. He endured it silently. And Hakon, still rejected and frustrated, enjoyed every moment of it,

News got down to the lowlands and into the jungle. The Phantom was Hakon's captive, and worked as a beast of burden! All the tribes got this news, including the Bandar, and the pygmy poison people resolved to go to the aid of their friend. Word of this came to him as he worked at the millstone. A Wambesi warrior had braved these heights to bring him hope and encouragement that help was on its way. But the Twentieth sent back an order with the warrior, forbidding the Bandar to come. He knew that even with their poison arrows, the little people would be slaughtered by the guns of Hakon if they attempted to scale this peak. And so he persisted, and the guards and the people mocked him and tormented him; Hakon laughed, and the girl wept. But he persisted.

(By this time, young Kit was listening with tears in his eyes, hi~ face flushed, fists clenched. "How awful," he moaned. "How awful. Oh, what did he do?" Guran went on with his story.)

He persisted. He had noticed something that no one else saw. Each time he made the slow and laborious circuit, pushing the shaft that turned the heavy millstone, a link of his chain scraped on the stone ledge. Each turn, the stone cut ever so slightly into the heavy link. It was hard, back-breaking work, for he was doing the work of two oxen. But he didn't weaken. He did not answer the taunts of the crowd. He ignored the whips of the guards. Sometimes, Hakon would bring his dinner guests to watch the jungle beast at work. The princes from the neighboring peaks were delighted with this unusual and singular entertainment, and congratulated their host on his originality. And as though he had become a dumb beast, he continued to work, round and round, and each time the link was worn a bit thinner.

Months passed, almost a year of this torment. The girl in the tower had lost all track of time. Several times, she had refused to eat, going on a hunger strike to protest this cruel treatment of her lover. Word of this had reached the "dumb beast" below, and he sent back word to the tower, asking her to eat, to keep up her strength and her health. And round and round he went, using all his mighty strength to push the terrible weight.

Then one day, it happened. Hakon was nearby with a small party of lords and ladies. They had just come in from a hunt, and were examining the "jungle beast" at work before having their lunch. The guards stood at attention in the background. It happened faster than anyone could see, for the link was now worn almost entirely through. One moment, the "jungle beast" was at work, then he raised up, tearing the long shaft from the chain, and swinging chain and shaft as he moved. The fearful weapon mowed down a dozen guests like bowling pins, among them Hakon. But the "beast" was upon him, his powerful hands around Hakon's elegant throat. The cold serpent eyes popped.

"Tell your men to drop their guns. Bring her down here at once," the masked man commanded.

Hakon croaked out the order. By this time, his own gun was at his head. The girl-scarcely believing what was happening-was brought to the masked man. Without stopping to greet her, he told her to mount one of the hunting party's horses at the side. Then he commanded that his stallion Thunder be brought to him. Hakon was cursing furiously flow, until a sharp cuff on his ears stopped him. Thunder was brought out, rearing and prancing until he saw his master.

The Twentieth mounted him, raising Hakon along with him, in front of the saddle. Hakon's gun was still pressed against the back of his own head, and the prince's lace was a ghastly white.

"Stop him," he screeched like a wounded bird.

"If anyone moves, you are a dead man. You understand?"

Hakon understood, as did all the watching court.

At the masked man's order, a guard brought him the broken chain. It was the guard who had whipped him unmercifully for months. The masked man swung the chain, and the guard fell to the ground. Then the two horses sped out of the courtyard, down the mountain slope, bearing the girl, the prince, and the Phantom of the jungle. And the dazed court stared at the broken shaft and remaining chains and their bewilderment grew. How could any man, however strong, break that heavy chain? Had this indeed been the immortal man about whom their jungle-bred nurses had sung to them since infancy?

Word had raced ahead of their return. The air throbbed with the heat of tom-toms and the jungle roared its welcome. There was an enormous wedding. All the chiefs and leaders came to the Deep Woods. And the celebrations were held in each village for those who could not attend. Twenty chiefs escorted Prince Hakon to the headquarters of the Jungle Patrol in Mawitaan. And the zealous patrolmen saw to it that the man who had so cruelly ambushed two of their members was brought to a speedy trial, And all his wealth and alt the power and pressure of the mountain princes could not reduce his thirty-year jail term. Later on the prince was killed by a fellow prisoner in a sordid brawl.

The Twentieth never forgot his chain. From the day of the wedding on, it hung from the edge of his Skull Throne.

"For me," he once explained "it represents patience, the will to persist, to do what must be done despite the odds. Never in my life was I in a lower or more desperate state. Yet the slow grinding of that chain gave me hope, the will to go on."

That was the end of the story. Kit was lying on his back, looking silently at the clouds far above. Then Guran removed something from his pouch.

"Your father said that if I ever told you the story, I was to give you this."

It was a link of the chain that hung at the throne. It was the link that had been worn down and broken. Kit held it, and stared at it for a long time,

"I now know why you told me that story, Guran. You think I should stay and do what I am supposed to do ever though I hate it."

Guran nodded. "Even though you hate it, but you know it is the thing that should be done. Patience, persistence, the word; your father used with the chain."

Kit sighed deeply. "Yes," he said, "I will go back."

The sun was now low in the sky. They had long since dried in the sun. They heard a little voice.

"You're the boy they're looking for," said the voice. They peered through the grass. It was a little girl, about eight year~ old, in a little white dress, wearing a big red ribbon in her long dark hair. She had wide gray eyes, and the face of an angel. And she lisped.

"I saw your picture in the paper, with him," she said pointing to Guran. "My mommy said you ran away from borne."

They hurriedly adjusted their loincloths and walked over to her.

"Are you lost?" he asked.

"Oh no. My house is right over there. I know your Aunt Bessie," she lisped because of missing front teeth. "And she is crying because you ran away."

"What is your name?" asked Kit.

"Diana. Diana Palmer."

A fortune-teller might have told Kit that this little girl was to be the love of his life. But there was no fortune-teller there.

"Aunt Bessie is crying?"

"You're a bad boy and you should not run away. You should go home," said the child firmly.

Kit was disturbed. He had not realized Aunt Bessie loved him like that. His mother would also cry if he ran away from home.

"You know, Guran, she's right," he said.

"It is for the best," said Guran nodding.

"He talks funny," said Diana.

"Come, we'll take you home," said Kit, taking her little hand.

They returned as unexpectedly as they had disappeared. Aunt Bessie covered the embarrassed Kit with kisses. Even Uncle Ephraim was relieved, though he remained gruff. He'd felt guilty about the boys' departure.

But he also felt that the runaway should not go unpunished. He demanded the boy be sent to him in the cellar despite Aunt Bessie's tearful protests. Still wearing only a loincloth, Kit arrived with Guran behind him. Uncle Ephraim was standing near the washtub. He had taken off his heavy leather belt, and held it doubled up in his hands.

"You almost broke your aunt's heart," he said sternly. "You must be punished. Bend over that table."

Kit stood silently, and did not move.

"Did you hear me?" roared Ephraim.

"I heard you," said Kit quietly. "You have no right to beat me, and I shall not let you do it."

Ephraim shook with anger at this defiance. He was a big burly man, a former lumberjack, and used to rough tactics. He started toward Kit, then stopped. He was bigger and heavier but there was something about this grim young face that gave him a sudden chill. Behind, in the shadows, little Guran stood like a carved idol. Without knowing why, Ephraim was suddenly afraid. He wanted to get out of that cellar fast, and he did. He went to the stairs and spoke without turning back.

"I'll talk to you another time," he said.

Aunt Bessie was listening at the hall door as be came out.

"You didn't hurt him?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"No, I changed my mind," said Ephraim.

"I'm so glad," said Aunt Bessie happily. "That was a sweet and fine thing to do."

Kit went back to his routine. In his heart he knew that is what his father would expect him to do. It was not quite the same now, at school. Boys understand what running away means. He'd been unhappy, this stern classmate. They were more friendly and sympathetic. But Ephraim remained grouchy. One thing continued to disturb him.

"How could your sister send that boy here with no money?" he demanded again one night. "That 'rich planter,' living in a cave, did he expect me to pay for a private school education, and feed both of them? They eat like elephants!"

Kit overheard this, and he remembered something. He had forgotten to give them the little sack. He took it to his aunt and uncle as they sat at the dinner table and explained.

"My father doesn't keep money, but he gave me this to give to you, to pay for my education and upkeep," said Kit. Ephraim stared at the shining jewels, white, green, red, and blue.

"What am I supposed to do with these? Are they glass?" he asked suspiciously.

"They don't look like glass," said Aunt Bessie, "but they make such clever imitations now. Are they glass, Kit?"

"I don't know," said Kit.

Ephraim and Bessie and Kit took the sack to a jeweler- friend in the town. The man spent a long time examining them with a magnifying glass.

"Will those pay for the boy's schooling?" asked Ephraim, expecting his friend to laugh at him.

"Where did you get these, Ephraim?" said the jeweler.

"Never mind where. I didn't steal them. Will they pay for his schooling, is all I care."

"I think you might buy a small school with them, Ephraim," said the jeweler.

When Ephraim realized the value of the gems, he turned white, then asked Kit, "Where did your father get these?"

Kit shrugged. "He has a whole roomful of them," he said.

"A whole roomful?" said Ephraim weakly.

Now Uncle Ephraim treated Kit well. He was pleasant, he even brought him a glass of milk to his room at bedtime. Also one for Guran.

At home and school, life became good for Kit and he was happier. Guran, the wise little man, watched and knew all was well. He could make a good report to the Deep Woods. He then announced to Kit that he was leaving, that the time was up. Kit was not happy about this, but he knew it must be. Guran was miserable in this strange land, and was anxious to return to his people.

Before leaving the second-floor room for the last time, he tried to give Kit a farewell gift, his most prized possession, his weapons. These were the small bow and stone-tipped arrows and the short lance that he had brought from the Deep Woods, wrapped in hide. Kit was touched, but refused. He knew the little man would need them as soon as he entered the jungle. It was a long trek from the sea to the Deep Woods, and he would be in constant danger from animals, and possibly from men if he were unarmed. But with his weapons in his hands no human being would come near him. Ordinarily they would run at the sight of him. So Kit refused and Guran understood and was not offended.

They took him to the airport. By now, he had learned to wear ordinary clothing, but his small figure still attracted attention. Since he spoke no languages that were known in this world, he carried written instructions and wore printed tags that showed his destinations.

Kit shook hands with him, something they had both learned in Clarksville, and Guran was gone. Gone with him was Kit's last link with the jungle and the world of his childhood. Now, for a long time, his life would be here.

cntd.