Bughouse

Well, he was ready for the bughouse, certainly.

“Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar. Do I have to tell you again?” He caught McGuire by the neck and stood him on the floor. / “Say, friend,” cried McGuire wildly, “are you bughouse? I’m sick—see? I’ll croak if I got to hustle. What’ve I done to yer?”—he began his chronic whine—“I never asked yer to⸺”

'Just what's up on this train? It seems bughouse to me.'

Ewball, man, that is some bughouse talk.