“Let this man go!” the naval officer bellowed, brandishing a revolver. “He’s an American citizen, and you daren’t touch him.”
The fat man laughed ironically. “You appear to have an extremely vague idea of international law, my impetuous friend,” he remarked; “surprisingly vague, in view of the uniform you wear. I should advise you, señor, to go back to your ship, and to congratulate yourself that you, too, are not placed under arrest. Unless you depart immediately, the consequences are liable to be serious for both yourself and your country.”
“For my country!” Ridder began derisively. “Why, you chump——”
“Hold on, there, old man!” Hawley broke in, smiling at his friend’s recklessness. “You’d better do as he says, and go back to the ship. You can’t do any good, and, if you attempt to interfere, you may indeed cause international complications. Especially,” he added, with a chuckle, “if you are guilty of such a grave breach of decorum as to call his excellency, the President of Baracoa, a chump.”
Ridder gave a start of surprise. Until that moment, the identity of the stout man in civilian attire had not been known to him. With the instinctive respect which his training as a naval officer caused him to feel for the head of a sister republic, no matter what he might think of the man personally, for a moment he was abashed at what he had done. But a second later he was guilty of a still greater breach of decorum.
Stepping up to Portiforo, before anybody could realize what he was about to do, he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against that startled dignitary’s “corporation.” “So this is the president!” he cried, with a triumphant laugh. “Well, so much the better! We may be outnumbered, but I guess we hold the trump card. Get into the boat, Frank, old man, and beat it back to the ship. These fellows can’t stop you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” the president gasped, his bloated face turning pale. “Do you realize, señor, that this is the greatest outrage in all history?”
Lieutenant Ridder, of the United States navy, did realize that. He was aware that his mad act was likely to “raise the deuce at Washington,” cause a howl of protest to go up from every nation on the globe, and possibly bring on an international trouble. He had every reason to believe, too, that even if he managed to escape Portiforo’s vengeance—which contingency was extremely doubtful—he was going to be put out of the service for acting in a manner unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. But, just the same, he kept the muzzle of his revolver pressed against the stomach of the chief gentleman of Baracoa. For he was not Lieutenant Ridder, of the United States navy at that moment. He was plain John Ridder, of New York City, who had once had the life almost kicked out of him by a gang of toughs in New York’s Chinatown, and who, ever since then, had been yearning for an opportunity to pay his debt to the plucky young man who had saved him from that fate. Possibly his actions were influenced also by the consideration that while the person whom he was threatening was the ruler of a friendly nation, he was also a tyrant and a usurper, and that his rascality might be revealed to the world if only Hawley could get away with the photographic proof of the dastardly conspiracy.
“I assure you, Mr. Portiforo, that I do mean exactly what I say,” he said quietly. “You had better instruct your soldiers to let go of my friend and permit him to enter the launch, for as sure as there are bullets in this gun—and I hope, for your sake, you have no doubts on that score—if they attempt to stop him there’s going to be an immediate change of administration in Baracoa.”
Desperate as was his act, it might have succeeded, for the soldiers who held the Camera Chap captive, appreciating the peril of their president, looked to the latter irresolutely for instructions, and Portiforo, realizing that, temporarily, at least, this rash young man with the bulldog jaw held, as he had boasted, the trump card, was about to give orders to his soldiers to do as Ridder demanded. But just at that moment, the naval officer’s arms were pinned to his sides, and his right wrist was grasped so tightly that the revolver fell to the ground.