Jungle Tales of Tarzan

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Page 64

the Gomangani.

Also, he saw that the little fellow often refused food and was growing
thinner day by day. At times he surprised the boy sobbing softly to
himself. Tarzan tried to comfort him, even as fierce Kala had
comforted Tarzan when the ape-man was a balu, but all to no avail.
Go-bu-balu merely no longer feared Tarzan--that was all. He feared
every other living thing within the jungle. He feared the jungle days
with their long excursions through the dizzy tree tops. He feared the
jungle nights with their swaying, perilous couches far above the
ground, and the grunting and coughing of the great carnivora prowling
beneath him.

Tarzan did not know what to do. His heritage of English blood rendered
it a difficult thing even to consider a surrender of his project,
though he was forced to admit to himself that his balu was not all that
he had hoped. Though he was faithful to his self-imposed task, and
even found that he had grown to like Go-bu-balu, he could not deceive
himself into believing that he felt for it that fierce heat of
passionate affection which Teeka revealed for Gazan, and which the
black mother had shown for Go-bu-balu.

The little black boy from cringing terror at the sight of Tarzan passed
by degrees into trustfulness and admiration. Only kindness had he ever
received at the hands of the great white devil-god, yet he had seen
with what ferocity his kindly captor could deal with others. He had
seen him leap upon a certain he-ape which persisted in attempting to
seize and slay Go-bu-balu. He had seen the strong, white teeth of the
ape-man fastened in the neck of his adversary, and the mighty muscles
tensed in battle. He had heard the savage, bestial snarls and roars of
combat, and he had realized with a shudder that he could not
differentiate between those of his guardian and those of the hairy ape.

He had seen Tarzan bring down a buck, just as Numa, the lion, might
have done, leaping upon its back and fastening his fangs in the
creature's neck. Tibo had shuddered at the sight, but he had thrilled,
too, and for the first time there entered his dull, Negroid mind a
vague desire to emulate his savage foster parent. But Tibo, the little
black boy, lacked the divine spark which had permitted Tarzan, the
white boy, to benefit by his training in the ways of the fierce jungle.
In imagination he was wanting, and imagination is but another name

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