"You must tell the mayor I shall want ten thousand feeds of hay by this evening."
"Ten thousand feeds of hay? He will never be able to get so much!"
"What do you think we are to do, then? We have two or three thousand fiacres, twelve or fifteen hundred cabriolets, and tilburys and waggons and the devil knows what beside!"
"All right! don't despair: if we can't get hay, we will get something else...."
"What?" the general interrupted impatiently.
"Why, we will take the standing crops of oats!"
"Excellent!" exclaimed Pajol; "upon my word, you understand the art of war! What is your name?"
"Charras."
"I shall not forget it, be sure! Go! I shall feel as confident of my ten thousand feeds as though I had them here already."
"Oh! you may rely on them."