“You were on your way to El Orobo Rancho, eh? Are you acquainted there?” he asked.
Billy replied that they were not—merely looking for employment upon an American-owned ranch or in an American mine.
“Why did you leave your own country?” asked Pesita. “What do you want here in Mexico?”
“Well, ol' top,” replied Billy, “you see de birds was flyin' south an' winter was in de air, an a fat-head dick from Chi was on me trail—so I ducks.”
“Ducks?” queried Pesita, mystified. “Ah, the ducks—they fly south, I see.”
“Naw, you poor simp—I blows,” explained Billy.
“Ah, yes,” agreed Pesita, not wishing to admit any ignorance of plain American even before a despised gringo. “But the large-faced dick—what might that be? I have spend much time in the States, but I do not know that.”
“I said 'fat-head dick'—dat's a fly cop,” Billy elucidated.
“It is he then that is the bird.” Pesita beamed at this evidence of his own sagacity. “He fly.”
“Flannagan ain't no bird—Flannagan's a dub.”