"There appears to be some vacant spaces," he says. And there did.
"And here's about the biggest!" And it was. "There don't seem to be
any island there, but here's a name, 'Lua,' only you can't tell what
it belongs to." No more you could. The name appeared to be dropped
down there so that section of the Pacific wouldn't look so lonely. I
brought out the ship's chart, but it didn't give any name, only two
or three islands sorted around where Craney's chart said "Lua." It
looked as if you might find one of them, and then again you might not.
"Ever been on any of 'em?" he asked. I hadn't and Kamelillo didn't
know, but looked as if he might have swallowed one without
remembering it.
"Nor I," says Craney, "but I know there's likely to be natives when
the islands are sizable."
"These might be only coral circles," I says.
"Well, I guess we'll go and look at 'Lua,' anyway," he says. "A man
don't put 'Lua' on a map without he's got some idea."
It was nearly two months from the day we left the coast of the
States when we came to the edge of the letter "L," as according to
Craney's chart, and we sailed along the bottom of it and around the
curve of "U," and up the inside on the right, where the ship's chart
had an island, but we missed it, if it was there.
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