Realizing that here was an opportunity to settle old scores with his rival, Gale eagerly availed himself of it. “You can take it from me, Señor Presidente,” he declared, “that Hawley is nothing but a plain, ordinary camera man, and in the newspaper business camera men don’t rank very high. We reporters rather look down on them.”
The president looked surprised. “Then it isn’t true that he gets an enormous salary, and that his brilliant exploits have made him so famous that even the President of the United States has been known to employ his services in diplomatic work?” As Portiforo asked the question he looked keenly at the reporter.
“Certainly not,” the latter answered. “Who’s been filling you up with such trash as that? The President of the United States doesn’t employ newspaper men for diplomatic work,” he added, unaware of the good turn he was really doing the man he desired to injure. “There are lots of secret-service men who understand how to use a camera. If the president required any photographic work of a diplomatic nature, he’d employ one of them, of course.”
Portiforo was considerably impressed by the logic of this argument. For a few seconds he puffed reflectively on his cigar. “Do you happen to know, Señor Gale, why Hawley came to Baracoa?” he inquired suddenly. “The real reason, I mean. Did anybody send him, or did he come here of his own accord?”
It was on the tip of the reporter’s tongue to tell his questioner the truth about Hawley’s mission so far as he knew it, for he realized that such information was not likely to prejudice Portiforo in the prisoner’s favor. But fortunately for the cause for which his rival had made such sacrifices, he did not yield to this impulse. On second thought he decided that more was to be gained by supporting the accusation that the Camera Chap was an insurrecto spy.
“Yes, I do happen to know why he came to Baracoa, Señor Presidente,” he answered. “He came here of his own accord to help the revolutionists. He made no secret of his purpose in New York. He boasted to several of the men on Park Row of his friendship for that rascal Rodriguez. He said that there was going to be a revolution in Baracoa and that he was going to help things along with his camera. You are aware, of course, that he and Rodriguez left New York together and arrived here on the same boat?”
Portiforo nodded. “Yes; that significant fact naturally did not escape our notice. Still——” he paused, and a puzzled frown darkened his beefy countenance—“what you have told me is most interesting, Señor Gale,” he said, leaving unspoken the thought that had been in his mind. “I am deeply indebted to you for the information you have given. It has enabled me to decide what course I shall pursue regarding that wretched young man.”
“I am glad of that,” said the reporter, a glint in his eyes. “You can go as far as you like with him, Señor Presidente, without any fear of angering the government of my country.”
The president smiled sardonically. “It seems to me, my dear friend, that you are not exactly fond of your countryman.”
“I must admit that I haven’t any use for him,” the other responded. “But I am not alone in my prejudice. Every self-respecting newspaper man in New York who has had dealing with the fellow feels the same way about him. We regard him as one of the black sheep of our profession.”