Tarzan dove into the water, and swam around the wreck to the
lifeboat. The cool ocean refreshed him almost as much as would a
draft of water, so that it was with renewed vigor that he brought
the smaller boat alongside the derelict, and, after many herculean
efforts, succeeded in dragging it onto the slimy ship's bottom.
There he righted and examined it--the boat was quite sound, and
a moment later floated upright alongside the wreck. Then Tarzan
selected several pieces of wreckage that might answer him as paddles,
and presently was making good headway toward the far-off shore.

It was late in the afternoon by the time he came close enough
to distinguish objects on land, or to make out the contour of the
shore line. Before him lay what appeared to be the entrance to
a little, landlocked harbor. The wooded point to the north was
strangely familiar. Could it be possible that fate had thrown him
up at the very threshold of his own beloved jungle! But as the
bow of his boat entered the mouth of the harbor the last shred of
doubt was cleared away, for there before him upon the farther shore,
under the shadows of his primeval forest, stood his own cabin--built
before his birth by the hand of his long-dead father, John Clayton,
Lord Greystoke.

With long sweeps of his giant muscles Tarzan sent the little craft
speeding toward the beach. Its prow had scarcely touched when the
ape-man leaped to shore--his heart beat fast in joy and exultation
as each long-familiar object came beneath his roving eyes--the
cabin, the beach, the little brook, the dense jungle, the black,
impenetrable forest. The myriad birds in their brilliant plumage--the
gorgeous tropical blooms upon the festooned creepers falling in