“It’s a grite big rice track,” said the sailor. “Me cousin was there afore the Yanks came in. Mr. Gerard ’e got him exchinged. They got a ’ole army o’ Yanks there now—all civilian.”
“Is it a prison camp?” said Tom.
“A bloomin’ sailors’ ’ome.”
“Were you captured?” Tom asked.
“We’re off a bloomin’ mine l’yer,” the sailor answered, including his companion; “nabbed in the channel—’i, Freddie?”
“An’ I ’ad tickets in me pocket to tike me girl to the pl’y in Piccadilly that night. Mybe she’s witing yet,” responded Freddie.
“Let ’er wite. Hi, Fritzie, we’re a-goin’ to add four shillins’ to the bloomin’ indemnity, to p’y fer the tickets!”
Further conversation with this blithesome pair elicited the information that they had been taken by a German destroyer while in a small boat in the act of mine inspecting, and that the men in oilskins (the one who had spoken being an American) were captives taken from a sunken British trawler.
One by one these prisoners were passed into an inner room where each remained for about five minutes. When the sailor came out, he held up a brass tag which had been fastened with a piece of wire to his buttonhole.
“I got me bloomin’ iron cross,” he said, “and I’m a-goin’ to mike me ’ome in Slops! Kipe yer fingers crossed w’en yer go in there, Yank; tike me advice!”