“And that nation?” questioned the other.
“Is better left unmentioned.”
“You do not love my countrymen,” exclaimed the American, as he drew out his cigarette case and passed it to his companion, who waved it away impatiently.
“Say rather—hate,” was the terse reply. “But I do not look on you as one of that nationality. Your mother was my dearly loved cousin, and Colombia boasts no prouder name than the one she bore before she married your father. By the love you bear her memory I entreat you to assist me in this undertaking.”
“I have promised,” said the American gruffly. “I hear that Colombia intends accepting the ten million dollars offered by the United States for certain islands near Panama.”
“Never!” The Colombian spoke with emphasis. “Our hatred lies too deep for that; it cannot be placated by an offer of ‘conscience money,’ no matter how great the sum.”
“The more fools you,” muttered the American, sotto voce.
“The revolt of Panama was followed by an insurrection in Colombia,” continued the other, “and the Government was overthrown. The American newspapers gave us a few paragraphs at the time—they did not mention that nearly one hundred thousand people were killed; that the horrors of civil war were augmented by pillage and murder. I was at the front with the troops, and, in my absence from home, my wife and child were murdered by some insurrectos. I tell you,” he struck the table a resounding blow with his clenched fist, “there is no Colombian living who would not gladly see the United States humiliated.”
“It is easy to see that the people in Panama are jealous of the success of the Americans,” commented the young man.