The Lost Boys came from Caledonia, Hibernia, Albion, and beyond of course, just as their grown-up counterparts, the captain and crew of the Jolly Roger did.
They were lost of course, but not so much geographically, as from their mothers.
Aboard the Jolly Roger, the boatswain Mr. Smee and guest and friend, captain of the Lord of the Seven Seas, Klaus Störtebeker were disputing theology over potato pancakes, honey, gingerbread, and beer, their being blissfully unaware of what their mothers would say of such a pure carbohydrate repast.
“Martin Luther is right. Why does the pope, whose wealth today is greater than the wealth of the richest Crassus, build the basilica of St. Peter with the money of poor believers rather than with his own money?” asked Klaus Störtebeker after gulping down easily a liter of northern beer.
“Does the sale of indulgences truly coincide with Jesus’s intentions?” he pressed his point after downing another tall glassful.
The Hibernian Mr. Smee, himself hiccupping after a not insignificant quantity of Guinness, concurred. He was not inclined to part with his hard-fought-for treasure, and if his justification and absolution are dependent on internal faith alone, all the better for it!
The two Protestants lived up to their name, and protested long and loudly, though with merriment and good cheer, as well as reasonable form, over the pope, various archbishops as occurred to them, and sundry. It was as well their mothers couldn’t hear them.