Later that day, Hawley got his first sight of Miguel Portiforo, President of Baracoa. There was a big military parade in honor of “the overthrow of the revolution,” and the president rode at the head of his troops in an open carriage, flanked on each side by an escort of cavalry.
Standing in front of the Hotel Nacional, the Camera Chap gazed with great interest upon the man with whom he realized he must expect to match wits in order to carry out the delicate and difficult errand which had been intrusted to him. At first sight the president did not impress him as being a man of formidable personality. Although he wore a glittering uniform of scarlet and gold, he was far from presenting a military appearance. He was undersized and exceedingly fat, and his bloated face was as round as a pumpkin. As he smiled in acknowledgment of the plaudits of the crowds, he looked like an easy-going, jovial old boy, who would have been more at home at a banquet table proposing a toast to “the ladies—God bless ’em,” than ruling with an iron hand over the political destinies of a turbulent South American republic.
That was the first impression which the Camera Chap formed of Miguel Portiforo, but just then an incident happened which quickly caused him to change his estimate of that dignitary. As the president’s carriage was passing, a man in the front rank of the crowd on the sidewalk outside the Hotel Nacional stepped forward, and, gesticulating wildly, began to abuse Portiforo in a tone loud enough to reach the latter’s ears. The man was staggering as though intoxicated. Hawley learned later that he was a humble shoemaker of Santa Barbara, who, when in a normal condition, was as meek and law-abiding a citizen as was to be found in all Baracoa, but who now had been celebrating the overthrow of the revolution to such an extent that he was not responsible for what he said or did. Although the fellow’s condition was obvious, Portiforo made no allowance for it. Glancing at the latter, the Camera Chap was appalled by the change which had come over him as the drunken man’s abuse fell upon his ears. The jovial smile had disappeared. In its stead had come an expression terrible to behold. The beady eyes were snapping with rage. The thin lips were parted in a snarl. Curiously the president’s plump face seemed suddenly to have lost all its roundness, and to have been remolded into lines sinister and cruel. It was not until he had seen several soldiers rush forward, seize the offender, and drag him off, struggling and screaming, that his features relaxed, and the jovial smile returned.
“I wonder what will happen to the poor beggar,” said a dapper, good-looking young man who was standing close behind Hawley. “I suppose they’ll give him the limit, eh?”
“I am afraid so,” replied his companion, a blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman. “Inasmuch as the city has been put under martial law, Portiforo can do as he pleases with him, and that brute isn’t likely to show much clemency to a man who has publicly insulted him.”
“Be careful,” entreated the young man nervously. “Aren’t you taking an awful chance, Virginia, talking like that in public? There may be people around us who understand English, and even though you are the daughter of the United States minister, you can’t—well for the love of Methusaleh! If it isn’t old Frank Hawley, of the Sentinel!”
Regretting the impulse which had caused him to turn his head at this hint of the girl’s identity, Hawley stared at the speaker in some consternation, for the recognition was mutual. The Camera Chap was well acquainted with Miss Throgmorton’s dapper companion. The latter’s name was Gale, and he was a reporter on the New York Daily News, the Sentinel’s most bitter rival. Incidentally he was the last man in the world whom Hawley would have desired to meet in Baracoa.
CHAPTER XI.
A DIPLOMAT’S DAUGHTER.
Between the Camera Chap and Gale there existed a feud of long standing, the intensity of which was based upon more than mere loyalty for their respective newspapers. Hawley knew the News man, from past experience, as the trickiest, most unscrupulous member of the journalistic profession he had ever matched wits with on an assignment, and for that reason disliked him exceedingly. But dislike would hardly be a strong enough word to characterize the sentiments of Gale toward Hawley. Jealousy and resentment for many past defeats at the latter’s hands had engendered in him a feeling of downright hatred for the clever, good-humored chap who generally managed to turn the tables on him in spite of his underhand methods.
There was nothing of this feeling evident in Gale’s manner now, however, as he greeted the Camera Chap. On the contrary, if he had loved the latter like a twin brother his demeanor could scarcely have been more cordial. “Well, this is, indeed, a big surprise, Hawley, old scout,” he exclaimed exuberantly. “I didn’t have any idea that you were in Baracoa.”