who was diligently endeavouring to shed his Highland accent and
to take on the colloquialisms of the country.

From a house a block and a half away, a confused clamour rose up
into the still night air.

"Oh, dat noting," cheerfully said the little Russian, shrugging his
shoulders, "dey mak like dat when dey having a good time."

"They do, eh? And how do you think their neighbours will be liking
that sort of thing?"

The Sergeant stood still to analyse this confused clamour.
Above the thumping and the singing of the dancers could be heard
the sound of breaking boards, mingled with yells and curses.

"Murchuk, there is fighting going on."

"Suppose," agreed the Interpreter, "when Galician man get married,
he want much joy. He get much beer, much fight."

"I will just be taking a walk round there," said the Sergeant.
"These people have got to learn to get married with less fuss
about it. I am not going to stand this much longer. What do they
want to fight for anyway?"

"Oh," replied Murchuk lightly, "Polak not like Slovak, Slovak not
like Galician. Dey drink plenty beer, tink of someting in Old
Country, get mad, make noise, fight some."