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The Dangers of Facebook Marketplace

Tanks: The Deciding Battle of the War of 1932 

Tanques: la batalla decisiva de la guerra de 1932

Chars : la bataille décisive de la guerre de 1932

टैंक: 1932 के युद्ध की निर्णायक लड़ाई

戦車: 1932 年の戦争の決戦

Tanques: A Batalha Decisiva da Guerra de 1932

Xe tăng: Trận chiến quyết định năm 1932

坦克：1932 年战争的决定性战役

As I’ve written about before in and , the esports market is huge, has intense user engagement and is growing at an astronomical rate. There is great potential for incredible founders, with excellent ideas,to build businesses that generate out sized returns for early stage investors in the space. The Birth of a Venture Capital Investment Thesis Why Invest in esports So, who exactly, is investing in esports startups? As I worked to answer this question, by compiling a list of investors, I was surprised at some of the results. I found 421 VCs, angels, accelerators, family offices, and companies (strategics) that had invested in esports startups. Of the 421 total investors, most of them have made only one investment in the space (353 have only one — 84%). I am not considering the 1-time investors to be true “esports investors” as many early stage investors have made investments in sectors that are not a focus area, but they ended up in a deal for one reason or another (other than a thesis about the space). Only 16% of those invested in esports have more than 1 esports investment 16% (68 of the 421) of investors on the list have invested in more than one esports . Of those who have invested in more than one, there are quite a few notable names . Some of the investors who have invested in multiple esports startups are angels or accelerators (some notable, such as , , etc.). Often the angels are partners at large VCs who then later invest in the space, when the round sizes grow, and their fund’s minimum check size doesn’t preclude investment. startup (see the list of the most active at the bottom of this post) 500 Startups Y Combinator Where are the esports investors located? The geographic breakdown of the investors in this space is not very surprising. The bulk of the investors are in California, followed by New York and Europe. I did expect more to be in Asia, as a large percentage of the esports market exists in China, South Korea, Japan, etc. The headline number of 421 total investors in the space makes it seem like everyone is piling into esports startups, and at times, it does feel like some of the rounds I’m seeing are oversubscribed, and/or competitive. However, I still believe the space is somewhat opportunistic for investors at this time (especially at the earlier stages, and certainly for those with some domain knowledge) due to a lack of institutional investors who are investing regularly in the space. Who are the Most Active VCs in esports? Of the 68 investors who have more than one esports investment, 50 of those are VCs (18 are angels, incubators, accelerators, or strategic investors). I’ve listed the VCs who are active (have invested in more than one esports startup) here as a resource for founders and whoever may be interested. If I’m missing someone, please let me know and I’ll update the list. Compiling this list was a lot of grunt work, so it is likely that I missed something (contact info is at the bottom of this post). In addition to the most active VCs that I’ve listed below, I also compiled a Crunchbase list of all the investors in esports startups that I found who had Crunchbase profiles ( ). link here Note: you will likely need a Crunchbase account to view the list. A list of a few representative portfolio companies showing esports exposure, is listed next to each VC’s name below. The list of investments is not intended to be inclusive of every deal in the space by each investor, rather a representative sample (and is listed in alphabetical order). (Raptr, smash.gg, Discord) Accel Partners (Gamer Sensei, Skillz) Accomplice (Unikrn, Blitz esports, Sliver.tv, Gamer Sensei) Advancit Capital (Battlefy, AlphaDraft) Amplify.LA (Battlefy, Wonder) Arab Angel Fund (Battlefy, Repable) BDC IT Venture Capital (OutPost Games, Discord, Manticore Games) Benchmark (Twitch, Team Solo Mid) Bessemer Venture Partners (Kek, Boom.tv, Runtime.gg) BITKRAFT (KontrolFreek, Haste, Wavedash) BLH Venture Partners (Scopely, Blitz esports) BoxGroup (Vulcun, Sliver.tv, Kickback, Vision esports) CAA Ventures (FanAI, GameCo, Haste, Beam.Pro, Wavedash, VY esports) Courtside (TurningSense, FanAI, VREAL, Gamer Sensei) CRCM Ventures (RFRSH, Armada Interactive, Resolution, Playraven, Small Giant, Play) Creandum Future (Vulcun, Super Evil Megacorp, Blitz esports) Crosscut Ventures (Mobalytics, PlayVS, Haste, Battlefy) Deep Space Ventures (G2 esports, Haste, Battlefy, FanAI, Epics.gg, Runtime) Everblue Management (Boom.tv, BeyondGames, Mobcrush) First Round (Kickback, Guilded) Funders Club (Mobalytics, Super Evil Megacorp) General Catalyst (Mobalytics, Curse) GGV Capital (Kickback, Blast) Great Oaks Venture Capital (Scopely, Gunslinger Studios, AlphaDraft, FanAI, Sliver.tv) Greycroft (Team EnVyUs, Maestro) Hersh Interactive Group (FaceIT, Super Evil Megacorp, Discord) Index Ventures (GAmeCo, Rixty) Javelin Venture Partners (Kokomo Games, Supreme Games) K Cube Ventures (Dojo Madness, Future Play Games, Plexchat, Gawkbox, Polystream, Supercell, Shark Punch, Radiant Entertainment) London Venture Partners (Vulcun, Kickback) Ludlow Ventures (Wavedash Games, Immortals) Machine Shop Ventures (G2 esports, Manticore Games) MACRO Ventures (Genvid, Wavedash Games, Dojo Madness) March Capital Partners (FanAI, Gameco) QB1 Ventures (AlphaDraft, Battlefy, Kickback) Queensbridge Venture Partners (Dojo Madness, Super Evil Megacorp) Raine Ventures (formerly ) (AlphaDraft, Discord) Ridge Ventures IDG Capital Partners (GameWisp, Sidelines, Matcherino) Right Side Capital Management (YouStake, FanAI) Rosecliff Ventures (Unikrn, Maestro) Rubicon Venture Capital (Vulcun, 5211game, Skillz) Sequoia Capital (Super Evil Megacorp, Funzio, Playdom, Drifter) Signia Venture Partners (Battlefy, Youstake, Sidelines, Gameflip) Social Starts (Discord, Smash.gg) Spark Capital (Loot Crate, FanAI, Skillz) Sterling VC (Skillz, Overwatch League) The Kraft Group (Battlefy, Gunslinger Studios) Third Wave Digital (Loot Crate, AlphaDraft, VREAL) Upfront Ventures (Echo Fox, Twin Galaxies) Vision Venture Partners (VREAL, Matcherino, Taunt) Vulcan Capital If I’m missing someone you know of, please let me know and I’ll update the list. I hope this can be a resource to founders and investors in esports space, and I will update this list and the corresponding statistics when new information becomes available. The list of investors is going to change over time. I have worked with many VCs who are looking actively at early and late stage rounds in esports businesses on a daily basis. More and more investors will end up on the list in the coming months and years. is a venture capital investor that has invested in a number of esports teams and startups. Stephen Hays Follow Stephen on Twitter Here

Who is Investing in esports Startups?

David Copperfield: Chapter 12 - Liking Life On My Own Account No Better, I Form A Great Resolution

The preparations for Foscar's funeral

The Mad King by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . BARNEY TO THE RESCUE BARNEY TO THE RESCUE As Barney Custer raced along the Austrian highroad toward the frontier and Lutha, his spirits rose to a pitch of buoyancy to which they had been strangers for the past several days. For the first time in many hours it seemed possible to Barney to entertain reasonable hopes of escape from the extremely dangerous predicament into which he had gotten himself. He was even humming a gay little tune as he drove into a tiny hamlet through which the road wound. No sign of military appeared to fill him with apprehension. He was very hungry and the odor of cooking fell gratefully upon his nostrils. He drew up before the single inn, and presently, washed and brushed, was sitting before the first meal he had seen for two days. In the enjoyment of the food he almost forgot the dangers he had passed through, or that other dangers might be lying in wait for him at his elbow. From the landlord he learned that the frontier lay but three miles to the south of the hamlet. Three miles! Three miles to Lutha! What if there was a price upon his head in that kingdom? It was HER home. It had been his mother’s birthplace. He loved it. Further, he must enter there and reach the ear of old Prince von der Tann. Once more he must save the king who had shown such scant gratitude upon another occasion. For Leopold, Barney Custer did not give the snap of his fingers; but what Leopold, the king, stood for in the lives and sentiments of the Luthanians—of the Von der Tanns—was very dear to the American because it was dear to a trim, young girl and to a rugged, leonine, old man, of both of whom Barney was inordinately fond. And possibly, too, it was dear to him because of the royal blood his mother had bequeathed him. His meal disposed of to the last morsel, and paid for, Barney entered the stolen car and resumed his journey toward Lutha. That he could remain there he knew to be impossible, but in delivering his news to Prince Ludwig he might have an opportunity to see the Princess Emma once again—it would be worth risking his life for, of that he was perfectly satisfied. And then he could go across into Serbia with the new credentials that he had no doubt Prince von der Tann would furnish him for the asking to replace those the Austrians had confiscated. At the frontier Barney was halted by an Austrian customs officer; but when the latter recognized the military car and the Austrian uniform of the driver he waved him through without comment. Upon the other side the American expected possible difficulty with the Luthanian customs officer, but to his surprise he found the little building deserted, and none to bar his way. At last he was in Lutha—by noon on the following day he should be at Tann. To reach the Old Forest by the best roads it was necessary to bear a little to the southeast, passing through Tafelberg and striking the north and south highway between that point and Lustadt, to which he could hold until reaching the east and west road that runs through both Tann and Blentz on its way across the kingdom. The temptation to stop for a few minutes in Tafelberg for a visit with his old friend Herr Kramer was strong, but fear that he might be recognized by others, who would not guard his secret so well as the shopkeeper of Tafelberg would, decided him to keep on his way. So he flew through the familiar main street of the quaint old village at a speed that was little, if any less, than fifty miles an hour. On he raced toward the south, his speed often necessarily diminished upon the winding mountain roads, but for the most part clinging to a reckless mileage that caused the few natives he encountered to flee to the safety of the bordering fields, there to stand in open-mouthed awe. Halfway between Tafelberg and the crossroad into which he purposed turning to the west toward Tann there is an S-curve where the bases of two small hills meet. The road here is narrow and treacherous—fifteen miles an hour is almost a reckless speed at which to travel around the curves of the S. Beyond are open fields upon either side of the road. Barney took the turns carefully and had just emerged into the last leg of the S when he saw, to his consternation, a half-dozen Austrian infantrymen lolling beside the road. An officer stood near them talking with a sergeant. To turn back in that narrow road was impossible. He could only go ahead and trust to his uniform and the military car to carry him safely through. Before he reached the group of soldiers the fields upon either hand came into view. They were dotted with tents, wagons, motor-vans and artillery. What did it mean? What was this Austrian army doing in Lutha? Already the officer had seen him. This was doubtless an outpost, however clumsily placed it might be for strategic purposes. To pass it was Barney’s only hope. He had passed through one Austrian army—why not another? He approached the outpost at a moderate rate of speed—to tear toward it at the rate his heart desired would be to awaken not suspicion only but positive conviction that his purposes and motives were ulterior. The officer stepped toward the road as though to halt him. Barney pretended to be fussing with some refractory piece of controlling mechanism beneath the cowl—apparently he did not see the officer. He was just opposite him when the latter shouted to him. Barney straightened up quickly and saluted, but did not stop. “Halt!” cried the officer. Barney pointed down the road in the direction in which he was headed. “Halt!” repeated the officer, running to the car. Barney glanced ahead. Two hundred yards farther on was another post—beyond that he saw no soldiers. He turned and shouted a volley of intentionally unintelligible jargon at the officer, continuing to point ahead of him. He hoped to confuse the man for the few seconds necessary for him to reach the last post. If the soldiers there saw that he had been permitted to pass through the first they doubtless would not hinder his further passage. That they were watching him Barney could see. He had passed the officer now. There was no necessity for dalliance. He pressed the accelerator down a trifle. The car moved forward at increased speed. A final angry shout broke from the officer behind him, followed by a quick command. Barney did not have to wait long to learn the tenor of the order, for almost immediately a shot sounded from behind and a bullet whirred above his head. Another shot and another followed. Barney was pressing the accelerator downward to the limit. The car responded nobly—there was no sputtering, no choking. Just a rapid rush of increasing momentum as the machine gained headway by leaps and bounds. The bullets were ripping the air all about him. Just ahead the second outpost stood directly in the center of the road. There were three soldiers and they were taking deliberate aim, as carefully as though upon the rifle range. It seemed to Barney that they couldn’t miss him. He swerved the car suddenly from one side of the road to the other. At the rate that it was going the move was fraught with but little less danger than the supine facing of the leveled guns ahead. The three rifles spoke almost simultaneously. The glass of the windshield shattered in Barney’s face. There was a hole in the left-hand front fender that had not been there before. “Rotten shooting,” commented Barney Custer, of Beatrice. The soldiers still stood in the center of the road firing at the swaying car as, lurching from side to side, it bore down upon them. Barney sounded the raucous military horn; but the soldiers seemed unconscious of their danger—they still stood there pumping lead toward the onrushing Juggernaut. At the last instant they attempted to rush from its path; but they were too late. At over sixty miles an hour the huge, gray monster bore down upon them. One of them fell beneath the wheels—the two others were thrown high in air as the bumper struck them. The body of the man who had fallen beneath the wheels threw the car half way across the road—only iron nerve and strong arms held it from the ditch upon the opposite side. Barney Custer had never been nearer death than at that moment—not even when he faced the firing squad before the factory wall in Burgova. He had done that without a tremor—he had heard the bullets of the outpost whistling about his head a moment before, with a smile upon his lips—he had faced the leveled rifles of the three he had ridden down and he had not quailed. But now, his machine in the center of the road again, he shook like a leaf, still in the grip of the sickening nausea of that awful moment when the mighty, insensate monster beneath him had reeled drunkenly in its mad flight, swerving toward the ditch and destruction. For a few minutes he held to his rapid pace before he looked around, and then it was to see two cars climbing into the road from the encampment in the field and heading toward him in pursuit. Barney grinned. Once more he was master of his nerves. They’d have a merry chase, he thought, and again he accelerated the speed of the car. Once before he had had it up to seventy-five miles, and for a moment, when he had had no opportunity to even glance at the speedometer, much higher. Now he was to find the maximum limit of the possibilities of the brave car he had come to look upon with real affection. The road ahead was comparatively straight and level. Behind him came the enemy. Barney watched the road rushing rapidly out of sight beneath the gray fenders. He glanced occasionally at the speedometer. Seventy-five miles an hour. Seventy-seven! “Going some,” murmured Barney as he saw the needle vibrate up to eighty. Gradually he nursed her up and up to greater speed. Eighty-five! The trees were racing by him in an indistinct blur of green. The fences were thin, wavering lines—the road a white-gray ribbon, ironed by the terrific speed to smooth unwrinkledness. He could not take his eyes from the business of steering to glance behind; but presently there broke faintly through the whir of the wind beating against his ears the faint report of a gun. He was being fired upon again. He pressed down still further upon the accelerator. The car answered to the pressure. The needle rose steadily until it reached ninety miles an hour—and topped it. Then from somewhere in the radiator hose a hissing and a spurt of steam. Barney was dumbfounded. He had filled the cooling system at the inn where he had eaten. It had been working perfectly before and since. What could have happened? There could be but a single explanation. A bullet from the gun of one of the three men who had attempted to stop him at the second outpost had penetrated the radiator, and had slowly drained it. Barney knew that the end was near, since the usefulness of the car in furthering his escape was over. At the speed he was going it would be but a short time before the superheated pistons expanding in their cylinders would tear the motor to pieces. Barney felt that he would be lucky if he himself were not killed when it happened. He reduced his speed and glanced behind. His pursuers had not gained upon him, but they still were coming. A bend in the road shut them from his view. A little way ahead the road crossed over a river upon a wooden bridge. On the opposite side and to the right of the road was a wood. It seemed to offer the most likely possibilities of concealment in the vicinity. If he could but throw his pursuers off the trail for a while he might succeed in escaping through the wood, eventually reaching Tann on foot. He had a rather hazy idea of the exact direction of the town and castle, but that he could find them eventually he was sure. The sight of the river and the bridge he was nearing suggested a plan, and the ominous grating of the overheated motor warned him that whatever he was to do he must do at once. As he neared the bridge he reduced the speed of the car to fifteen miles an hour, and set the hand throttle to hold it there. Still gripping the steering wheel with one hand, he climbed over the left-hand door to the running board. As the front wheels of the car ran up onto the bridge Barney gave the steering wheel a sudden turn to the right, and jumped. The car veered toward the wooden handrail, there was a splintering of stanchions, as, with a crash, the big machine plunged through them headforemost into the river. Without waiting to give even a glance at his handiwork Barney Custer ran across the bridge, leaped the fence upon the right-hand side and plunged into the shelter of the wood. Then he turned to look back up the road in the direction from which his pursuers were coming. They were not in sight—they had not seen his ruse. The water in the river was of sufficient depth to completely cover the car—no sign of it appeared above the surface. Barney turned into the wood smiling. His scheme had worked well. The occupants of the two cars following him might not note the broken handrail, or, if they did, might not connect it with Barney in any way. In this event they would continue in the direction of Lustadt, wondering what in the world had become of their quarry. Or, if they guessed that his car had gone over into the river, they would doubtless believe that its driver had gone with it. In either event Barney would be given ample time to find his way to Tann. He wished that he might find other clothes, since if he were dressed otherwise there would be no reason to imagine that his pursuers would recognize him should they come upon him. None of them could possibly have gained a sufficiently good look at his features to recognize them again. The Austrian uniform, however, would convict him, or at least lay him under suspicion, and in Barney’s present case, suspicion was as good as conviction were he to fall into the hands of the Austrians. The garb had served its purpose well in aiding in his escape from Austria, but now it was more of a menace than an asset. For a week Barney Custer wandered through the woods and mountains of Lutha. He did not dare approach or question any human being. Several times he had seen Austrian cavalry that seemed to be scouring the country for some purpose that the American could easily believe was closely connected with himself. At least he did not feel disposed to stop them, as they cantered past his hiding place, to inquire the nature of their business. Such farmhouses as he came upon he gave a wide berth except at night, and then he only approached them stealthily for such provender as he might filch. Before the week was up he had become an expert chicken thief, being able to rob a roost as quietly as the most finished carpetbagger on the sunny side of Mason and Dixon’s line. A careless housewife, leaving her lord and master’s rough shirt and trousers hanging upon the line overnight, had made possible for Barney the coveted change in raiment. Now he was barged as a Luthanian peasant. He was hatless, since the lady had failed to hang out her mate’s woolen cap, and Barney had not dared retain a single vestige of the damning Austrian uniform. What the peasant woman thought when she discovered the empty line the following morning Barney could only guess, but he was morally certain that her grief was more than tempered by the gold piece he had wrapped in a bit of cloth torn from the soldier’s coat he had worn, which he pinned on the line where the shirt and pants had been. It was somewhere near noon upon the seventh day that Barney skirting a little stream, followed through the concealing shade of a forest toward the west. In his peasant dress he now felt safer to approach a farmhouse and inquire his way to Tann, for he had come a sufficient distance from the spot where he had stolen his new clothes to hope that they would not be recognized or that the news of their theft had not preceded him. As he walked he heard the sound of the feet of a horse galloping over a dry field—muffled, rapid thud approaching closer upon his right hand. Barney remained motionless. He was sure that the rider would not enter the wood which, with its low-hanging boughs and thick underbrush, was ill adapted to equestrianism. Closer and closer came the sound until it ceased suddenly scarce a hundred yards from where the American hid. He waited in silence to discover what would happen next. Would the rider enter the wood on foot? What was his purpose? Was it another Austrian who had by some miracle discovered the whereabouts of the fugitive? Barney could scarce believe it possible. Presently he heard another horse approaching at the same mad gallop. He heard the sound of rapid, almost frantic efforts of some nature where the first horse had come to a stop. He heard a voice urging the animal forward—pleading, threatening. A woman’s voice. Barney’s excitement became intense in sympathy with the subdued excitement of the woman whom he could not as yet see. A moment later the second rider came to a stop at the same point at which the first had reined in. A man’s voice rose roughly. “Halt!” it cried. “In the name of the king, halt!” The American could no longer resist the temptation to see what was going on so close to him “in the name of the king.” He advanced from behind his tree until he saw the two figures—a man’s and a woman’s. Some bushes intervened—he could not get a clear view of them, yet there was something about the figure of the woman, whose back was toward him as she struggled to mount her frightened horse, that caused him to leap rapidly toward her. He rounded a tree a few paces from her just as the man—a trooper in the uniform of the house of Blentz—caught her arm and dragged her from the saddle. At the same instant Barney recognized the girl—it was Princess Emma. Before either the trooper or the princess were aware of his presence he had leaped to the man’s side and dealt him a blow that stretched him at full length upon the ground—stunned. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1995). The Mad King. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/364/pg364-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

BARNEY TO THE RESCUE

Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Outpost of the World The Outpost of the World With the report of his gun D’Arnot saw the door fly open and the figure of a man pitch headlong within onto the cabin floor. The Frenchman in his panic raised his gun to fire again into the prostrate form, but suddenly in the half dusk of the open door he saw that the man was white and in another instant realized that he had shot his friend and protector, Tarzan of the Apes. With a cry of anguish D’Arnot sprang to the ape-man’s side, and kneeling, lifted the latter’s head in his arms—calling Tarzan’s name aloud. There was no response, and then D’Arnot placed his ear above the man’s heart. To his joy he heard its steady beating beneath. Carefully he lifted Tarzan to the cot, and then, after closing and bolting the door, he lighted one of the lamps and examined the wound. The bullet had struck a glancing blow upon the skull. There was an ugly flesh wound, but no signs of a fracture of the skull. D’Arnot breathed a sigh of relief, and went about bathing the blood from Tarzan’s face. Soon the cool water revived him, and presently he opened his eyes to look in questioning surprise at D’Arnot. The latter had bound the wound with pieces of cloth, and as he saw that Tarzan had regained consciousness he arose and going to the table wrote a message, which he handed to the ape-man, explaining the terrible mistake he had made and how thankful he was that the wound was not more serious. Tarzan, after reading the message, sat on the edge of the couch and laughed. “It is nothing,” he said in French, and then, his vocabulary failing him, he wrote: You should have seen what Bolgani did to me, and Kerchak, and Terkoz, before I killed them—then you would laugh at such a little scratch. D’Arnot handed Tarzan the two messages that had been left for him. Tarzan read the first one through with a look of sorrow on his face. The second one he turned over and over, searching for an opening—he had never seen a sealed envelope before. At length he handed it to D’Arnot. The Frenchman had been watching him, and knew that Tarzan was puzzled over the envelope. How strange it seemed that to a full-grown white man an envelope was a mystery. D’Arnot opened it and handed the letter back to Tarzan. Sitting on a camp stool the ape-man spread the written sheet before him and read: TO TARZAN OF THE APES: Before I leave let me add my thanks to those of Mr. Clayton for the kindness you have shown in permitting us the use of your cabin. That you never came to make friends with us has been a great regret to us. We should have liked so much to have seen and thanked our host. There is another I should like to thank also, but he did not come back, though I cannot believe that he is dead. I do not know his name. He is the great white giant who wore the diamond locket upon his breast. If you know him and can speak his language carry my thanks to him, and tell him that I waited seven days for him to return. Tell him, also, that in my home in America, in the city of Baltimore, there will always be a welcome for him if he cares to come. I found a note you wrote me lying among the leaves beneath a tree near the cabin. I do not know how you learned to love me, who have never spoken to me, and I am very sorry if it is true, for I have already given my heart to another. But know that I am always your friend, JANE PORTER. Tarzan sat with gaze fixed upon the floor for nearly an hour. It was evident to him from the notes that they did not know that he and Tarzan of the Apes were one and the same. “I have given my heart to another,” he repeated over and over again to himself. Then she did not love him! How could she have pretended love, and raised him to such a pinnacle of hope only to cast him down to such utter depths of despair! Maybe her kisses were only signs of friendship. How did he know, who knew nothing of the customs of human beings? Suddenly he arose, and, bidding D’Arnot good night as he had learned to do, threw himself upon the couch of ferns that had been Jane Porter’s. D’Arnot extinguished the lamp, and lay down upon the cot. For a week they did little but rest, D’Arnot coaching Tarzan in French. At the end of that time the two men could converse quite easily. One night, as they were sitting within the cabin before retiring, Tarzan turned to D’Arnot. “Where is America?” he said. D’Arnot pointed toward the northwest. “Many thousands of miles across the ocean,” he replied. “Why?” “I am going there.” D’Arnot shook his head. “It is impossible, my friend,” he said. Tarzan rose, and, going to one of the cupboards, returned with a well-thumbed geography. Turning to a map of the world, he said: “I have never quite understood all this; explain it to me, please.” When D’Arnot had done so, showing him that the blue represented all the water on the earth, and the bits of other colors the continents and islands, Tarzan asked him to point out the spot where they now were. D’Arnot did so. “Now point out America,” said Tarzan. And as D’Arnot placed his finger upon North America, Tarzan smiled and laid his palm upon the page, spanning the great ocean that lay between the two continents. “You see it is not so very far,” he said; “scarce the width of my hand.” D’Arnot laughed. How could he make the man understand? Then he took a pencil and made a tiny point upon the shore of Africa. “This little mark,” he said, “is many times larger upon this map than your cabin is upon the earth. Do you see now how very far it is?” Tarzan thought for a long time. “Do any white men live in Africa?” he asked. “Yes.” “Where are the nearest?” D’Arnot pointed out a spot on the shore just north of them. “So close?” asked Tarzan, in surprise. “Yes,” said D’Arnot; “but it is not close.” “Have they big boats to cross the ocean?” “Yes.” “We shall go there to-morrow,” announced Tarzan. Again D’Arnot smiled and shook his head. “It is too far. We should die long before we reached them.” “Do you wish to stay here then forever?” asked Tarzan. “No,” said D’Arnot. “Then we shall start to-morrow. I do not like it here longer. I should rather die than remain here.” “Well,” answered D’Arnot, with a shrug, “I do not know, my friend, but that I also would rather die than remain here. If you go, I shall go with you.” “It is settled then,” said Tarzan. “I shall start for America to-morrow.” “How will you get to America without money?” asked D’Arnot. “What is money?” inquired Tarzan. It took a long time to make him understand even imperfectly. “How do men get money?” he asked at last. “They work for it.” “Very well. I will work for it, then.” “No, my friend,” returned D’Arnot, “you need not worry about money, nor need you work for it. I have enough money for two—enough for twenty. Much more than is good for one man and you shall have all you need if ever we reach civilization.” So on the following day they started north along the shore. Each man carrying a rifle and ammunition, beside bedding and some food and cooking utensils. The latter seemed to Tarzan a most useless encumbrance, so he threw his away. “But you must learn to eat cooked food, my friend,” remonstrated D’Arnot. “No civilized men eat raw flesh.” “There will be time enough when I reach civilization,” said Tarzan. “I do not like the things and they only spoil the taste of good meat.” For a month they traveled north. Sometimes finding food in plenty and again going hungry for days. They saw no signs of natives nor were they molested by wild beasts. Their journey was a miracle of ease. Tarzan asked questions and learned rapidly. D’Arnot taught him many of the refinements of civilization—even to the use of knife and fork; but sometimes Tarzan would drop them in disgust and grasp his food in his strong brown hands, tearing it with his molars like a wild beast. Then D’Arnot would expostulate with him, saying: “You must not eat like a brute, Tarzan, while I am trying to make a gentleman of you. Mon Dieu! Gentlemen do not thus—it is terrible.” Tarzan would grin sheepishly and pick up his knife and fork again, but at heart he hated them. On the journey he told D’Arnot about the great chest he had seen the sailors bury; of how he had dug it up and carried it to the gathering place of the apes and buried it there. “It must be the treasure chest of Professor Porter,” said D’Arnot. “It is too bad, but of course you did not know.” Then Tarzan recalled the letter written by Jane to her friend—the one he had stolen when they first came to his cabin, and now he knew what was in the chest and what it meant to Jane. “To-morrow we shall go back after it,” he announced to D’Arnot. “Go back?” exclaimed D’Arnot. “But, my dear fellow, we have now been three weeks upon the march. It would require three more to return to the treasure, and then, with that enormous weight which required, you say, four sailors to carry, it would be months before we had again reached this spot.” “It must be done, my friend,” insisted Tarzan. “You may go on toward civilization, and I will return for the treasure. I can go very much faster alone.” “I have a better plan, Tarzan,” exclaimed D’Arnot. “We shall go on together to the nearest settlement, and there we will charter a boat and sail back down the coast for the treasure and so transport it easily. That will be safer and quicker and also not require us to be separated. What do you think of that plan?” “Very well,” said Tarzan. “The treasure will be there whenever we go for it; and while I could fetch it now, and catch up with you in a moon or two, I shall feel safer for you to know that you are not alone on the trail. When I see how helpless you are, D’Arnot, I often wonder how the human race has escaped annihilation all these ages which you tell me about. Why, Sabor, single handed, could exterminate a thousand of you.” D’Arnot laughed. “You will think more highly of your genus when you have seen its armies and navies, its great cities, and its mighty engineering works. Then you will realize that it is mind, and not muscle, that makes the human animal greater than the mighty beasts of your jungle. “Alone and unarmed, a single man is no match for any of the larger beasts; but if ten men were together, they would combine their wits and their muscles against their savage enemies, while the beasts, being unable to reason, would never think of combining against the men. Otherwise, Tarzan of the Apes, how long would you have lasted in the savage wilderness?” “You are right, D’Arnot,” replied Tarzan, “for if Kerchak had come to Tublat’s aid that night at the Dum-Dum, there would have been an end of me. But Kerchak could never think far enough ahead to take advantage of any such opportunity. Even Kala, my mother, could never plan ahead. She simply ate what she needed when she needed it, and if the supply was very scarce, even though she found plenty for several meals, she would never gather any ahead. “I remember that she used to think it very silly of me to burden myself with extra food upon the march, though she was quite glad to eat it with me, if the way chanced to be barren of sustenance.” “Then you knew your mother, Tarzan?” asked D’Arnot, in surprise. “Yes. She was a great, fine ape, larger than I, and weighing twice as much.” “And your father?” asked D’Arnot. “I did not know him. Kala told me he was a white ape, and hairless like myself. I know now that he must have been a white man.” D’Arnot looked long and earnestly at his companion. “Tarzan,” he said at length, “it is impossible that the ape, Kala, was your mother. If such a thing can be, which I doubt, you would have inherited some of the characteristics of the ape, but you have not—you are pure man, and, I should say, the offspring of highly bred and intelligent parents. Have you not the slightest clue to your past?” “Not the slightest,” replied Tarzan. “No writings in the cabin that might have told something of the lives of its original inmates?” “I have read everything that was in the cabin with the exception of one book which I know now to be written in a language other than English. Possibly you can read it.” Tarzan fished the little black diary from the bottom of his quiver, and handed it to his companion. D’Arnot glanced at the title page. “It is the diary of John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, an English nobleman, and it is written in French,” he said. Then he proceeded to read the diary that had been written over twenty years before, and which recorded the details of the story which we already know—the story of adventure, hardships and sorrow of John Clayton and his wife Alice, from the day they left England until an hour before he was struck down by Kerchak. D’Arnot read aloud. At times his voice broke, and he was forced to stop reading for the pitiful hopelessness that spoke between the lines. Occasionally he glanced at Tarzan; but the ape-man sat upon his haunches, like a carven image, his eyes fixed upon the ground. Only when the little babe was mentioned did the tone of the diary alter from the habitual note of despair which had crept into it by degrees after the first two months upon the shore. Then the passages were tinged with a subdued happiness that was even sadder than the rest. One entry showed an almost hopeful spirit. To-day our little boy is six months old. He is sitting in Alice’s lap beside the table where I am writing—a happy, healthy, perfect child. Somehow, even against all reason, I seem to see him a grown man, taking his father’s place in the world—the second John Clayton—and bringing added honors to the house of Greystoke. There—as though to give my prophecy the weight of his endorsement—he has grabbed my pen in his chubby fists and with his inkbegrimed little fingers has placed the seal of his tiny finger prints upon the page. And there, on the margin of the page, were the partially blurred imprints of four wee fingers and the outer half of the thumb. When D’Arnot had finished the diary the two men sat in silence for some minutes. “Well! Tarzan of the Apes, what think you?” asked D’Arnot. “Does not this little book clear up the mystery of your parentage? “Why man, you are Lord Greystoke.” “The book speaks of but one child,” he replied. “Its little skeleton lay in the crib, where it died crying for nourishment, from the first time I entered the cabin until Professor Porter’s party buried it, with its father and mother, beside the cabin. “No, that was the babe the book speaks of—and the mystery of my origin is deeper than before, for I have thought much of late of the possibility of that cabin having been my birthplace. I am afraid that Kala spoke the truth,” he concluded sadly. D’Arnot shook his head. He was unconvinced, and in his mind had sprung the determination to prove the correctness of his theory, for he had discovered the key which alone could unlock the mystery, or consign it forever to the realms of the unfathomable. A week later the two men came suddenly upon a clearing in the forest. In the distance were several buildings surrounded by a strong palisade. Between them and the enclosure stretched a cultivated field in which a number of negroes were working. The two halted at the edge of the jungle. Tarzan fitted his bow with a poisoned arrow, but D’Arnot placed a hand upon his arm. “What would you do, Tarzan?” he asked. “They will try to kill us if they see us,” replied Tarzan. “I prefer to be the killer.” “Maybe they are friends,” suggested D’Arnot. “They are black,” was Tarzan’s only reply. And again he drew back his shaft. “You must not, Tarzan!” cried D’Arnot. “White men do not kill wantonly. Mon Dieu! but you have much to learn. “I pity the ruffian who crosses you, my wild man, when I take you to Paris. I will have my hands full keeping your neck from beneath the guillotine.” Tarzan lowered his bow and smiled. “I do not know why I should kill the blacks back there in my jungle, yet not kill them here. Suppose Numa, the lion, should spring out upon us, I should say, then, I presume: Good morning, Monsieur Numa, how is Madame Numa; eh?” “Wait until the blacks spring upon you,” replied D’Arnot, “then you may kill them. Do not assume that men are your enemies until they prove it.” “Come,” said Tarzan, “let us go and present ourselves to be killed,” and he started straight across the field, his head high held and the tropical sun beating upon his smooth, brown skin. Behind him came D’Arnot, clothed in some garments which had been discarded at the cabin by Clayton when the officers of the French cruiser had fitted him out in more presentable fashion. Presently one of the blacks looked up, and beholding Tarzan, turned, shrieking, toward the palisade. In an instant the air was filled with cries of terror from the fleeing gardeners, but before any had reached the palisade a white man emerged from the enclosure, rifle in hand, to discover the cause of the commotion. What he saw brought his rifle to his shoulder, and Tarzan of the Apes would have felt cold lead once again had not D’Arnot cried loudly to the man with the leveled gun: “Do not fire! We are friends!” “Halt, then!” was the reply. “Stop, Tarzan!” cried D’Arnot. “He thinks we are enemies.” Tarzan dropped into a walk, and together he and D’Arnot advanced toward the white man by the gate. The latter eyed them in puzzled bewilderment. “What manner of men are you?” he asked, in French. “White men,” replied D’Arnot. “We have been lost in the jungle for a long time.” The man had lowered his rifle and now advanced with outstretched hand. “I am Father Constantine of the French Mission here,” he said, “and I am glad to welcome you.” “This is Monsieur Tarzan, Father Constantine,” replied D’Arnot, indicating the ape-man; and as the priest extended his hand to Tarzan, D’Arnot added: “and I am Paul D’Arnot, of the French Navy.” Father Constantine took the hand which Tarzan extended in imitation of the priest’s act, while the latter took in the superb physique and handsome face in one quick, keen glance. And thus came Tarzan of the Apes to the first outpost of civilization. For a week they remained there, and the ape-man, keenly observant, learned much of the ways of men; meanwhile black women sewed white duck garments for himself and D’Arnot so that they might continue their journey properly clothed. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1993). Tarzan of the Apes. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/78/pg78-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

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