The climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon the varnished foliage and festooning vines. When the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance of corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass, filled with contentment. They could have found a cooler place, but they would not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting camp-fire. You don't have to get up, mornings, and you don't have to go to school, and wash, and all that blame foolishness. But they've got to do it.
Hermits always do.
Well, you would be a nice old slouch of a hermit. You'd be a disgrace. The Red-Handed made no response, being better employed. The other pirates envied him this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to acquire it shortly. And the women's always beautiful, too.