Lord of the Flies by William Golding

mouth to speak, caught Jack's eye and shut it again. Jack held out his hands for the conch and stood up, holding the delicate thing carefully in his sooty hands.
                "I agree with Ralph. We've got to have rules and obey them. After all, we're not savages. We're English, and the English are best at everything. So we've got to do the right things."
                He turned to Ralph.
                "Ralph, I'll split up the choir--my hunters, that is--into groups, and we'll be responsible for keeping the fire going--"
                This generosity brought a spatter of applause from the boys, so that Jack grinned at them, then waved the conch for silence.
                "We'll let the fire burn out now. Who would see smoke at night-time, anyway? And we can start the fire again whenever we like. Altos, you can keep the fire going this week, and trebles the next--"
                The assembly assented gravely.
                "And we'll be responsible for keeping a lookout too. If we see a ship out there"--they followed the direction of his bony arm with their eyes--"we'll put green branches on. Then there'll be more smoke."
                They gazed intently at the dense blue of the horizon, as if a little silhouette might appear there at any moment.
                The sun in the west was a drop of burning gold that slid nearer and nearer the sill of the world. All at once they were aware of the evening as the end of light and warmth.
                Roger took the conch and looked round at them gloomily.
                "I've been watching the sea. There hasn't been the trace of a ship. Perhaps we'll never be rescued."
                A murmur rose and swept away. Ralph took back the conch.
                "I said before we'll be rescued sometime. We've just got to wait, that's all."
                Daring, indignant, Piggy took the conch.
                "That's what I said! I said about our meetings and things and then you said shut up--"
                His voice lifted into the whine of virtuous recrimination. They stirred and began to shout him down.
                "You said you wanted a small fire and you been and built a pile like a hayrick. If I say anything," cried Piggy, with bitter realism, "you say shut up; but if Jack or Maurice or Simon--"
                He paused in the tumult, standing, looking beyond them and down the unfriendly side of the mountain to the great patch where they had found dead wood. Then he laughed so strangely that they were hushed, looking at the flash of his spectacles in astonishment. They followed his gaze to find the sour joke.
                "You got your small fire all right."
                Smoke was rising here and there among the creepers that festooned the dead or dying trees. As they watched, a flash of fire appeared at the root of one wisp, and then the smoke thickened. Small flames stirred at the trunk of a tree and crawled away through leaves and brushwood, dividing and increasing. One patch touched a tree trunk and scrambled up like a bright squirrel. The smoke increased, sifted, rolled outwards. The squirrel leapt on the wings of the wind and clung to another standing tree, eating downwards. Beneath the dark canopy of leaves and smoke the fire laid hold on the forest and began to gnaw. Acres of black and yellow smoke rolled steadily toward the sea. At the sight of the flames and the irresistible course of the fire, the boys broke into shrill, excited cheering. The flames, as though they were a kind of wild life, crept as a jaguar creeps on its belly toward a line of birch-like saplings that fledged an outcrop of the pink rock. They flapped at the first of the trees, and the branches grew a brief foliage of fire. The heart of flame leapt nimbly across the gap between the trees and then went swinging