Hawley believed that almost anything outrageous was possible after the
terrible scene he had witnessed in the courtyard of the jail, and he
accompanied his own visitors with some misgivings, which, however, he
took pains to conceal from them.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, with well-simulated carelessness, as
they invited him to enter an automobile with a closed top which was
standing outside the jail, “I’d like to know where you’re taking me?
I’m naturally of a rather curious disposition.”
“To the national palace, señor,” one of the men answered. “The
president sent us for you.”
The prisoner’s face grew grim. He thought he could guess the reason
for this summons. Disappointed at Lopez’s inability to get the truth
about the snapshot expedition, Portiforo was going to try his own skill
as a cross-examiner. The Camera Chap had no doubt that the president
of Baracoa was a past master at the gentle art of administering the
third degree, but he was fully resolved that if Portiforo hoped to get
anything out of him he was going to be greatly disappointed.
Arriving at the palace in a decidedly belligerent mood, which was
intensified by his contempt for the man of whose brutality he had
just had such startling evidence, he was somewhat astonished by the
graciousness with which he was received. Portiforo was seated in
the audience chamber, a large room furnished in massive mahogany and
hung with rich Oriental draperies. Near the president sat Minister
Throgmorton, whose scowling face was in sharp contrast to the smile
which illuminated the former’s rubicund countenance. The only other
person present was a dark-skinned young man who sat at a big writing
table in the center of the room, chewing the end of a pencil, with a
stenographer’s notebook before him.
“So this is Señor Hawley,” Portiforo began quizzically, when the
Camera Chap’s two guides had conducted him to a position in front of
the massive, thronelike chair in which the first gentleman of Baracoa
lolled. “So this is the adventurous young man whose discretion, I fear,
is not always as great as his valor.”
To this the prisoner did not deem it worth while to make any reply. He
merely looked straight into the tyrant’s beady eyes, his muscles tense,
his mouth set in a straight line.
“I am always glad to gaze upon genius,” Portiforo continued, without a
vestige of irony in his tone, “and I am informed, Señor Hawley, that
you are such a great man in your line that even the President of the
United States has honored you by providing work for your camera.”
Grasping the significance of this question, and conscious of the fact
that the other’s gaze was riveted searchingly upon his face, Hawley
was keenly on his guard. “I have had the honor of photographing the
President of the United States, if that is what you mean,” he replied
coldly.
His evident miscomprehension of the question seemed to please Portiforo.
“No; that was not quite what I meant,” the latter said, after a slight
pause. “However, we will let it go at that. I presume, señor,” he
continued, “you are wondering why I sent for you?”
The Camera Chap shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps you are in hopes that this summons may mean that, in spite of
the seriousness of your offense, you are to receive mercy?”
“Mercy!” Hawley exclaimed, with an ironical laugh. “No, I scarcely
expect that, sir--after the scene I witnessed in the prison yard this
morning. I hardly think you know what mercy means.”
Minister Throgmorton’s scowl deepened, but the president’s face did
not lose its smile as he turned to the stenographer at the table, who
had already started to make a record of the conversation. “I don’t
think you need put that down, Garcia,” he said good-humoredly. “I feel
confident that Señor Hawley will wish to withdraw that remark later on.”
He addressed himself once more to the man before him. “I presume,
señor, you refer to the execution of the traitor Bonsal. That was
indeed a sad affair, and I regret that you should have been compelled
to behold it. I think, however, that you are unjust in calling it
an outrage. The unhappy man met only his just deserts. He was found
guilty, after a fair trial, of conspiring against the government of
his adopted country. His fate was the fate which all traitors must
expect.” His small eyes twinkled. “Perhaps, however, you will change
your mind about my ignorance of the meaning of the word mercy,” he said
dryly, “when I tell you that, in spite of the seriousness of your own
offense, I have decided to let you go free.”
The Camera Chap gave a start of surprise.
“The worthy representative of your country here,” Portiforo continued,
with a bow in the direction of the envoy, “has been kind enough to
exert his personal influence in your behalf. While he fully agrees with
me that officially he has absolutely no rights in the matter--that the
nature of your crime puts you outside the protection of your government
and permits us to do with you as we see fit, my esteem for Señor
Throgmorton is so great that I have decided to grant his request to set
you free, since he has asked it of me as a personal favor to him.”
The prisoner, scarcely able to believe that what he heard was true,
turned with a grateful smile to the American diplomat. “This is very
good of you, sir,” he began.
Minister Throgmorton silenced him with a curt gesture. “You can spare
me your thanks,” he said, his face still maintaining its frozen
expression. “I want you to understand clearly that my intercession is
not prompted by any sympathy for you. On the contrary, I feel that
whatever sentence the court might see fit to pass upon you would be no
more than you richly deserve. I consider you, sir, a disgrace to your
country and to the honorable profession which has the misfortune to
number you among its members. My action in procuring your pardon is due
entirely to--er--to other reasons.”
The president smiled appreciatively, and his glance, wandering over to
the table, noted that the official stenographer was taking down every
word of this caustic speech.
“You will observe, Señor Hawley,” he remarked pointedly, “that were
your own countryman in my place, you could scarcely expect to receive
the leniency which I am showing you. Perhaps, now, you are ready to
withdraw the intemperate remark you made a little while ago about my
mercy?”
The Camera Chap smiled shrewdly. “I think I had better wait until I
have heard the conditions on which I am to get my release. I suppose
there will be conditions?”
“The only condition,” said Portiforo, frowning at this cold response,
“is that you get out of this country immediately. We will give you
until to-morrow. There is a boat leaving for New York in the morning.
If you are caught on Baracoan soil after that--well, what you saw take
place in the prison yard this morning ought to give you a graphic idea
of what you will have to expect.”
Hawley opened his mouth as though about to say something, but changed
his mind and merely bowed.
“And I warn you that next time,” said Minister Throgmorton sharply, “if
you expect any help from me you are going to be disappointed.”
Portiforo chuckled. “I feel confident that there isn’t going to be any
next time, eh, Mr. Hawley? As a man of common sense, you are no doubt
fully convinced of the inadvisability of doing any more camera work in
Baracoa.”
“Could I stay if I were to give you my word that I wouldn’t use my
camera while in this country?” the snapshot adventurer inquired.
The president grinned and shook his head. “Señor Hawley is such a great
camera enthusiast that we should have cause to fear that he might be
tempted to forget such a promise,” he said dryly. “No; greatly as I
regret having to be so inhospitable, we must insist upon your leaving
Baracoa.”
The Camera Chap bowed. “Very well, sir; I shall sail on to-morrow’s
boat,” he said. His air was so much like that of one who feels that
he is driving a hard bargain, that Minister Throgmorton commented
upon it angrily. “Anybody would think that you weren’t satisfied!”
he exclaimed. “You are without exception the most impertinent and
ungrateful fellow I have ever met.”
“I am sorry if I appear that way,” Hawley responded simply. “I assure
you, sir, that I am not ungrateful to you and Señor Portiforo for this
unexpected clemency.”
The president chuckled. “There is one other person to whom you are
indebted for your good fortune,” he announced dryly.
“Who is that?”
“Your brother journalist, Señor Gale. He was here yesterday to see me
concerning you.”
“To intercede for me?” Hawley exclaimed, scarcely able to conceal his
astonishment.
Portiforo smiled. “He gave me some information concerning you which had
a great influence upon me,” he said vaguely. “In fact, if it had not
been for the arguments he advanced, I don’t think I should have decided
to grant you freedom, even to oblige my dear friend Señor Throgmorton.”