Originally published: 1913
Genres: Fiction
Dime Novel Bibliography: https://dimenovels.org/Item/4014/Show
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70413
Chapters: 46
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
A CABINET DISCUSSION
The President of the United States shook his head with an emphasis which caused the other men gathered around the massive mahogany table to realize that it would be almost a waste of time to pursue the discussion. “It is my opinion, gentlemen, that if there were the slightest basis for this rumor, Mr. Throgmorton’s report would not be couched in such positive terms!” he declared, pointing to a paper on the table before him. “There isn’t a man in the diplomatic service more alert or level-headed than he, so far as I know. I am confident that it would be impossible for Portiforo to pull the wool over his eyes.”
“Possibly Portiforo has not pulled the wool over Throgmorton’s eyes,” the little man who sat at the president’s right suggested quietly. “He may not have found it at all necessary to do that.” There was something about the speaker’s tone that caused the other members of the cabinet to look at him curiously, and prompted the president to ask, quite calmly: “Will you say what you mean to imply by that remark, Mr. Attorney General?”
The little man smiled—a peculiar form of smile which seemed to be done with his eye only. “The American minister to the Republic of Baracoa has never given the impression of being exactly hostile to the Portiforo administration,” he remarked dryly.
The president frowned. “Are we to understand this as an insinuation against his good faith?”
“To be quite frank, Mr. President, I have never credited Mr. Throgmorton with a superabundance of good faith,” the attorney general replied. “I have known him for a long time—in fact, we were at college together, and—well, it would take more than his unsupported word to convince me that there is no truth in this startling story of Portiforo’s perfidy. He and the President of Baracoa are reputed to be close friends, and it is possible that his investigation might not be unbiased.”
“I protest against that remark,” the secretary of state exclaimed indignantly. “I, too, have known Mr. Throgmorton for a long time, and there isn’t a man living, Mr. President, in whose integrity I have greater confidence. If this hideous thing were true he would have told us so, no matter how amicably disposed he might be toward the Portiforo administration.”
The president nodded an acquiescence. “I have as much confidence in Throgmorton’s honesty as I have in his good judgment,” he declared. “As I said before, gentlemen, he is too conservative a man to have made such a positive denial unless he had good ground for doing so. I have felt all along that this rumor was nothing more than a concoction of Portiforo’s enemies; now I am sure of it.”
“And nothing would cause you to change your mind, Mr. President?” the attorney general inquired.
“I would not say that. I am always open to conviction. Of course, if you could bring me a photograph of Felix in a dungeon cell, I might be ready to believe that Portiforo has him in captivity. But even at that,” he added, a twinkle in his eyes, “I would have to be convinced that the snapshot was genuine.”
The attorney general smiled deprecatingly. “Then I’m afraid it will never be possible to convince you, Mr. President. I don’t imagine that there’s a photographer in all the world who could break into a South American dungeon, snapshot a prisoner, and get out again.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” put in the secretary of the interior. “I know of one man who might be able to accomplish even that remarkable feat. He’s a New York newspaperman named Hawley. He’s on the staff of the Sentinel. I met him some months ago, when I was in New York, and the experience I had with him then leads me to believe that there is scarcely any feat impossible of accomplishment where he is concerned.”
“Isn’t that the man they call ‘the Camera Chap’?” the president inquired, evincing keen interest.
“I believe they do call him that,” the secretary of the interior replied. “He is truly a wonderful photographer. I believe that if Portiforo really has Felix locked up in El Torro Fortress, Hawley could get a picture of him.”
The president made no comment on this, but, later that day, when the cabinet meeting was over, he said to his secretary: “I wish you would send word to Mr. Bates, of the New York Sentinel, that I would like to see him at his earliest convenience.”
Bates, the Sentinel’s Washington correspondent, hurried over to the White House immediately upon receipt of this information, hoping that the head of the nation contemplated favoring his paper with some exclusive information. What the latter actually said to him caused him some mystification.
“Mr. Bates,” the president began, “I believe you have a photographer named Hawley employed on your paper?”
“You mean the Camera Chap, Mr. President?”
“Yes. I have heard a great deal about his exploits, and if what I have heard is true, he must be a very unusual fellow. Tell me more about him, if you don’t mind.”
The Sentinel’s star correspondent launched into the subject with enthusiasm. There was not a man on his paper, from the editor-in-chief down to the youngest office boy, who was not proud of the fact that Frank Hawley was connected with it. The Camera Chap occupied a position unique in the newspaper world. He commanded a large salary, and his extraordinary achievements had made him famous in every newspaper office in the country and caused other managing editors to envy the Sentinel for having him under contract.
It took Bates more than half an hour to tell of some of Hawley’s most notable performances, and the president’s face lighted up as he listened. “Why,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, “the Camera Chap must be a remarkable character! Does he ever come to Washington? I would very much like to meet him. You might make it a point to mention that to your managing editor the next time you communicate with your office, Mr. Bates.”
“I will be sure to do so, Mr. President,” said the Sentinel representative, who, being far from dull-witted, and well acquainted with the chief executive’s methods, surmised that there was behind this request some special motive.
As a result of the message that Bates sent over the wire that connected the Sentinel’s Washington bureau with the home office, a tall, slender young man, with a prepossessing countenance and a twinkle in his keen eyes, arrived at the capital the following afternoon.
Bates greeted him effusively. “Welcome to our city, Hawley, old man!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know whether the president contemplates offering you a position in his cabinet or whether he merely wants his picture taken, but, whatever the reason, he’s very keen to meet you. His secretary called me up this morning to make sure you were coming, and when I told him that you were on your way to Washington he sent over this note for you.”
Bates handed Hawley a square envelope, on which the address of the executive mansion was embossed. The Camera Chap opened it, and read its contents over twice, the expression of surprise on his face intensifying as he did so.
“Are you sure this isn’t a practical joke?” he inquired half incredulously, handing Bates the note.
An envious look came to the other’s face as he glanced at it. “That’s going some!” he exclaimed. “You certainly are lucky, old man. Some of us Washington correspondents pride ourselves on being pals with the president, but he’s never invited any of us to lunch at the White House.”
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