"But I will go wit' you.

It is my way." Away from the noise of the puffing engines and the creaking car wheels, the ears of Sergeant Cameron and his friend were assailed by other and less cheerful sounds.
"Will you listen to that now ?" said the Sergeant to his polyglot companion.

"What do you think of that for a civilised city?
The Indians are not in it with that bunch," continued the Sergeant, 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.