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." "Come along with me," replied the Sergeant, and he squared his big shoulders and set off down the street with the quick, light stride that suggested the springing step of his Highland ancestors on the heather hills of Scotland.
Just as they arrived at the house of feasting, a cry, wild, weird and horrible, pierced through the uproar.

The Interpreter stopped as if struck with a bullet.
"My God!" he cried in an undertone, clutching the Sergeant by the arm, "My God! Dat terrible!" "What is it?
What is the matter with you, Murchuk ?" "You know not dat cry?
No ?" He was all trembling.

"Dat cry I hear long ago in Russland.

Russian man mak dat cry when he kill.
Dat Nihilist cry." "Go back and get Dr.Wright.He will be needed, sure.
You know where he lives, second corner down on Main Street.
Get a move on! Quick!" Meantime, while respectable Winnipeg lay snugly asleep under snow-covered roofs and smoking chimneys, while belated revellers and travellers were making their way through white, silent streets and under avenues of snow-laden trees to homes where reigned love and peace and virtue, in the north end and in the foreign colony the festivities in connection with Anka's wedding were drawing to a close in sordid drunken dance and song and in sanguinary fighting.
In the main room dance and song reeled on in uproarious hilarity.
In the basement below, foul and fetid, men stood packed close, drinking while they could.