"Let us hope that there is something tangible this time." He spoke with the gaiety and lightness of a Frenchman; for this was that Frenchman of the North, a Pole.
Mon lighted a cigarette, with a gay jerk of the match towards the last speaker, indicative of his recognition of a jest.
"Something," continued the Pole, "more than great promises--something more stable than a castle--in Spain.

Ha, ha! You have not taken Pampeluna yet, my friend.

One does not hear that Bilboa has fallen into the hands of the Carlists.

Every time we meet you ask for money.

You must arrange to give us something--for our money, my friend." "I will arrange," answered Mon in his quiet, neat enunciation, "to give you a kingdom." And he inclined his head forward to look at the Pole through the upper half of his gold-rimmed glasses.
"And not a vague republic in the region of the North Pole," said the stout man with a laugh.