“You’re in Willlamshaven,” the sailor told him, expressing no surprise at his experience.
“He’s civilian,” said one of the men in oilskins. “He’s safe.”
“Mybe, and mybe not,” said the sailor; “’ow old are yer?”
“Seventeen,” said Tom.
“Transports aren’t civilian,” said the sailor.
“Ship’s boys are not naval in American service.”
“It’s the ige of yer as does it,” the sailor answered. “I’ll wiger you me first package from ’ome ’e goes to Slopsgotten.”
“What is Slopsgotten?” Tom asked.
“It’s the ship’s boys’ ’eaven.”
“I guess it ain’t so good,” said the man.