With a furious shake the bosun's mate attempted to banish his gloomy thoughts, and turning to Broncho, remarked with a suspicious carelessness in his deep voice:
"Jack Derringer gives out to me as 'ow you wos a cowpuncher, an' it gets me teetotally 'ow you plays your little game."
"Wall," returned the cattleman politely, "it's some difficult to explain, you not bein' a cowman. What is it you-alls is aimin' for to know the savvy of? Is it cuttin' out or brandin' or night herdin', hoss-wranglin', workin' on a trail outfit, or what?"
"'Orse-wrangler's a josser as does a bunk wiv the 'orses, ain't he?"
"No, siree," replied Broncho seriously. "You're some tangled in your rope. That's a hoss-rustler. Hoss-wrangler is what we-alls call the longhorn who keeps tab o' buckskins, pintos, an' sech-like obstrep'rous but some necessary parties."
"I'm all jammed in a clinch. Your lingo'll shift me off my bedplate afore long. What kind er flat-foot is a buckskin?"
The polite cowpuncher made no remark as to his inability to understand Bill's naval idioms, but explained:
"A buckskin's a sort o' cayuse——"
"I'm a leatherneck if you ain't enuff to make a blighter tin-hats.[12] An' wot's a cayuse?"
Broncho looked faintly astonished at the extraordinary ignorance of the man-of-war's man.