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The children gave him the same simple obedience that they had given to the men with megaphones. Some were naked and carrying their clothes; others half-naked, or more or less dressed, in school uniforms, grey, blue, fawn, jacketed or jerseyed. There were badges, mottoes even, stripes of color in stockings and pullovers. (2)
These aren't just kids; they're schoolboys, used to having every part of their life, including their clothes, decided for them. No wonder they go a little (a lot) crazy when they're left on their own.
Then, with the martyred expression of a parent who has to keep up with the senseless ebullience of the children, he picked up the conch, turned toward the forest, and began to pick his way over the tumbled scar. (2)
See? We told you Piggy was the most adult-like of all of them. Here, his grownupness seems to be mostly about getting the other kids to obey the conch.
Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet. He stopped, facing the strip; and remembering that first enthusiastic exploration as though it were part of a brighter childhood, he smiled jeeringly. (5.1)
Ralph is growing up fast—the first days on the island seem like a literal lifetime ago. And notice that adulthood is associated with "weariness"? Yeah, growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be. Take it from Shmoop.