Many times, in the jacket, has Adam Strang recrudesced, but always he springs into being full-statured, heavy-thewed, a full thirty years of age.
I, Adam Strang, invariably assume my consciousness on a group of low, sandy islands somewhere under the equator in what must be the western Pacific Ocean.

I am always at home there, and seem to have been there some time.

There are thousands of people on these islands, although I am the only white man.

The natives are a magnificent breed, big-muscled, broad-shouldered, tall.

A six-foot man is a commonplace.