informed of the progress of a wedding feast of more than ordinary hilarity in the foreign colony.  This was the second night, and on second nights the general joyousness of the festivities was more than likely to become unduly exuberant.  Indeed, the reports of the early evening had been somewhat disquieting, and hence, Sergeant Cameron was rather pleased than not that Officer Donnelly’s beat lay in the direction of the foreign colony.

At length Number Two rolled in, a double header, one engine alive and one dead, but both swathed in snow and frozen steam from cowcatcher to tender, the first puffing its proud triumph over the opposing elements, the second silent, cold and lifeless like a warrior borne from the field of battle.

The passengers, weary and full of the mild excitement of their long struggle with storm and drift across half a continent, emerged from their snow-clad but very comfortable coaches and were eagerly taken in charge by waiting friends and watchful hotel runners.

Sergeant Cameron waited till the crowd had gone, and then turning to Murchuk, he said, “You will be coming along with me, Murchuk.  I am going to look after some of your friends.”

“My frients?” enquired Murchuk.

“Yes, over at the colony yonder.”

“My frients!” repeated Murchuk with some indignation.  “Not motch!” Murchuk was proud of his official position as Dominion Government Interpreter.  “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.  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.”