No one intended to leave Martha alone that afternoon, but it happened that
everyone was called away, for one reason or another. Mrs. McFarland was
attending the weekly card party held by the Women’s Anti-Gambling League.
Sister Nell’s young man had called quite unexpectedly to take her for a
long drive. Papa was at the office, as usual. It was Mary Ann’s day out.
As for Emeline, she certainly should have stayed in the house and looked after
the little girl; but Emeline had a restless nature.
“Would you mind, miss, if I just crossed the alley to speak a word to
Mrs. Carleton’s girl?” she asked Martha.
“’Course not,” replied the child. “You’d better
lock the back door, though, and take the key, for I shall be upstairs.”
“Oh, I’ll do that, of course, miss,” said the delighted maid,
and ran away to spend the afternoon with her friend, leaving Martha quite alone
in the big house, and locked in, into the bargain.
The little girl read a few pages in her new book, sewed a few stitches in her
embroidery and started to “play visiting” with her four favorite
dolls. Then she remembered that in the attic was a doll’s playhouse that
hadn’t been used for months, so she decided she would dust it and put it
in order.
Filled with this idea, the girl climbed the winding stairs to the big room
under the roof. It was well lighted by three dormer windows and was warm and
pleasant. Around the walls were rows of boxes and trunks, piles of old
carpeting, pieces of damaged furniture, bundles of discarded clothing and other
odds and ends of more or less value. Every well-regulated house has an attic of
this sort, so I need not describe it.
The doll’s house had been moved, but after a search Martha found it away
over in a corner near the big chimney.
She drew it out and noticed that behind it was a black wooden chest which Uncle
Walter had sent over from Italy years and years ago—before Martha was
born, in fact. Mamma had told her about it one day; how there was no key to it,
because Uncle Walter wished it to remain unopened until he returned home; and
how this wandering uncle, who was a mighty hunter, had gone into Africa to hunt
elephants and had never been heard from afterwards.
The little girl looked at the chest curiously, now that it had by accident
attracted her attention.
It was quite big—bigger even than mamma’s traveling trunk—and
was studded all over with tarnished brassheaded nails. It was heavy, too, for
when Martha tried to lift one end of it she found she could not stir it a bit.
But there was a place in the side of the cover for a key. She stooped to
examine the lock, and saw that it would take a rather big key to open it.
Then, as you may suspect, the little girl longed to open Uncle Walter’s
big box and see what was in it. For we are all curious, and little girls are
just as curious as the rest of us.
“I don’t b’lieve Uncle Walter’ll ever come back,”
she thought. “Papa said once that some elephant must have killed him. If
I only had a key—” She stopped and clapped her little hands
together gayly as she remembered a big basket of keys on the shelf in the linen
closet. They were of all sorts and sizes; perhaps one of them would unlock the
mysterious chest!
She flew down the stairs, found the basket and returned with it to the attic.
Then she sat down before the brass-studded box and began trying one key after
another in the curious old lock. Some were too large, but most were too small.
One would go into the lock but would not turn; another stuck so fast that she
feared for a time that she would never get it out again. But at last, when the
basket was almost empty, an oddly-shaped, ancient brass key slipped easily into
the lock. With a cry of joy Martha turned the key with both hands; then she
heard a sharp “click,” and the next moment the heavy lid flew up of
its own accord!
The little girl leaned over the edge of the chest an instant, and the sight
that met her eyes caused her to start back in amazement.
Slowly and carefully a man unpacked himself from the chest, stepped out upon
the floor, stretched his limbs and then took off his hat and bowed politely to
the astonished child.
He was tall and thin and his face seemed badly tanned or sunburnt.
Then another man emerged from the chest, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a
sleepy schoolboy. He was of middle size and his skin seemed as badly tanned as
that of the first.
While Martha stared open-mouthed at the remarkable sight a third man crawled
from the chest. He had the same complexion as his fellows, but was short and
fat.
All three were dressed in a curious manner. They wore short jackets of red
velvet braided with gold, and knee breeches of sky-blue satin with silver
buttons. Over their stockings were laced wide ribbons of red and yellow and
blue, while their hats had broad brims with high, peaked crowns, from which
fluttered yards of bright-colored ribbons.
They had big gold rings in their ears and rows of knives and pistols in their
belts. Their eyes were black and glittering and they wore long, fierce
mustaches, curling at the ends like a pig’s tail.
“My! but you were heavy,” exclaimed the fat one, when he had pulled
down his velvet jacket and brushed the dust from his sky-blue breeches.
“And you squeezed me all out of shape.”
“It was unavoidable, Luigi,” responded the thin man, lightly;
“the lid of the chest pressed me down upon you. Yet I tender you my
regrets.”
“As for me,” said the middle-sized man, carelessly rolling a
cigarette and lighting it, “you must acknowledge I have been your nearest
friend for years; so do not be disagreeable.”
“You mustn’t smoke in the attic,” said Martha, recovering
herself at sight of the cigarette. “You might set the house on
fire.”
The middle-sized man, who had not noticed her before, at this speech turned to
the girl and bowed.
“Since a lady requests it,” said he, “I shall abandon my
cigarette,” and he threw it on the floor and extinguished it with his
foot.
“Who are you?” asked Martha, who until now had been too astonished
to be frightened.
“Permit us to introduce ourselves,” said the thin man, flourishing
his hat gracefully. “This is Lugui,” the fat man nodded; “and
this is Beni,” the middle-sized man bowed; “and I am Victor. We are
three bandits—Italian bandits.”
“Bandits!” cried Martha, with a look of horror.
“Exactly. Perhaps in all the world there are not three other bandits so
terrible and fierce as ourselves,” said Victor, proudly.
“’Tis so,” said the fat man, nodding gravely.
“But it’s wicked!” exclaimed Martha.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Victor. “We are extremely and
tremendously wicked. Perhaps in all the world you could not find three men more
wicked than those who now stand before you.”
“’Tis so,” said the fat man, approvingly.
“But you shouldn’t be so wicked,” said the girl;
“it’s—it’s—naughty!”
Victor cast down his eyes and blushed.
“Naughty!” gasped Beni, with a horrified look.
“’Tis a hard word,” said Luigi, sadly, and buried his face in
his hands.
“I little thought,” murmured Victor, in a voice broken by emotion,
“ever to be so reviled—and by a lady! Yet, perhaps you spoke
thoughtlessly. You must consider, miss, that our wickedness has an excuse. For
how are we to be bandits, let me ask, unless we are wicked?”
Martha was puzzled and shook her head, thoughtfully. Then she remembered
something.
“You can’t remain bandits any longer,” said she,
“because you are now in America.”
“America!” cried the three, together.
“Certainly. You are on Prairie avenue, in Chicago. Uncle Walter sent you
here from Italy in this chest.”
The bandits seemed greatly bewildered by this announcement. Lugui sat down on
an old chair with a broken rocker and wiped his forehead with a yellow silk
handkerchief. Beni and Victor fell back upon the chest and looked at her with
pale faces and staring eyes.
When he had somewhat recovered himself Victor spoke.
“Your Uncle Walter has greatly wronged us,” he said, reproachfully.
“He has taken us from our beloved Italy, where bandits are highly
respected, and brought us to a strange country where we shall not know whom to
rob or how much to ask for a ransom.”
“’Tis so!” said the fat man, slapping his leg sharply.
“And we had won such fine reputations in Italy!” said Beni,
regretfully.
“Perhaps Uncle Walter wanted to reform you,” suggested Martha.
“Are there, then, no bandits in Chicago?” asked Victor.
“Well,” replied the girl, blushing in her turn, “we do not
call them bandits.”
“Then what shall we do for a living?” inquired Beni, despairingly.
“A great deal can be done in a big American city,” said the child.
“My father is a lawyer” (the bandits shuddered), “and my
mother’s cousin is a police inspector.”
“Ah,” said Victor, “that is a good employment. The police
need to be inspected, especially in Italy.”
“Everywhere!” added Beni.
“Then you could do other things,” continued Martha, encouragingly.
“You could be motor men on trolley cars, or clerks in a department store.
Some people even become aldermen to earn a living.”
The bandits shook their heads sadly.
“We are not fitted for such work,” said Victor. “Our business
is to rob.”
Martha tried to think.
“It is rather hard to get positions in the gas office,” she said,
“but you might become politicians.”
“No!” cried Beni, with sudden fierceness; “we must not
abandon our high calling. Bandits we have always been, and bandits we must
remain!”
“’Tis so!” agreed the fat man.
“Even in Chicago there must be people to rob,” remarked Victor,
with cheerfulness.
Martha was distressed.
“I think they have all been robbed,” she objected.
“Then we can rob the robbers, for we have experience and talent beyond
the ordinary,” said Beni.
“Oh, dear; oh, dear!” moaned the girl; “why did Uncle Walter
ever send you here in this chest?”
The bandits became interested.
“That is what we should like to know,” declared Victor, eagerly.
“But no one will ever know, for Uncle Walter was lost while hunting
elephants in Africa,” she continued, with conviction.
“Then we must accept our fate and rob to the best of our ability,”
said Victor. “So long as we are faithful to our beloved profession we
need not be ashamed.”
“’Tis so!” cried the fat man.
“Brothers! we will begin now. Let us rob the house we are in.”
“Good!” shouted the others and sprang to their feet.
Beni turned threateningly upon the child.
“Remain here!” he commanded. “If you stir one step your blood
will be on your own head!” Then he added, in a gentler voice:
“Don’t be afraid; that’s the way all bandits talk to their
captives. But of course we wouldn’t hurt a young lady under any
circumstances.”
“Of course not,” said Victor.
The fat man drew a big knife from his belt and flourished it about his head.
“S’blood!” he ejaculated, fiercely.
“S’bananas!” cried Beni, in a terrible voice.
“Confusion to our foes!” hissed Victor.
And then the three bent themselves nearly double and crept stealthily down the
stairway with cocked pistols in their hands and glittering knives between their
teeth, leaving Martha trembling with fear and too horrified to even cry for
help.
How long she remained alone in the attic she never knew, but finally she heard
the catlike tread of the returning bandits and saw them coming up the stairs in
single file.
All bore heavy loads of plunder in their arms, and Lugui was balancing a mince
pie on the top of a pile of her mother’s best evening dresses. Victor
came next with an armful of bric-a-brac, a brass candelabra and the parlor
clock. Beni had the family Bible, the basket of silverware from the sideboard,
a copper kettle and papa’s fur overcoat.
“Oh, joy!” said Victor, putting down his load; “it is
pleasant to rob once more.”
“Oh, ecstacy!” said Beni; but he let the kettle drop on his toe and
immediately began dancing around in anguish, while he muttered queer words in
the Italian language.
“We have much wealth,” continued Victor, holding the mince pie
while Lugui added his spoils to the heap; “and all from one house! This
America must be a rich place.”
With a dagger he then cut himself a piece of the pie and handed the remainder
to his comrades. Whereupon all three sat upon the floor and consumed the pie
while Martha looked on sadly.
“We should have a cave,” remarked Beni; “for we must store
our plunder in a safe place. Can you tell us of a secret cave?” he asked
Martha.
“There’s a Mammoth cave,” she answered, “but it’s
in Kentucky. You would be obliged to ride on the cars a long time to get
there.”
The three bandits looked thoughtful and munched their pie silently, but the
next moment they were startled by the ringing of the electric doorbell, which
was heard plainly even in the remote attic.
“What’s that?” demanded Victor, in a hoarse voice, as the
three scrambled to their feet with drawn daggers.
Martha ran to the window and saw it was only the postman, who had dropped a
letter in the box and gone away again. But the incident gave her an idea of how
to get rid of her troublesome bandits, so she began wringing her hands as if in
great distress and cried out:
“It’s the police!”
The robbers looked at one another with genuine alarm, and Lugui asked,
tremblingly:
“Are there many of them?”
“A hundred and twelve!” exclaimed Martha, after pretending to count
them.
“Then we are lost!” declared Beni; “for we could never fight
so many and live.”
“Are they armed?” inquired Victor, who was shivering as if cold.
“Oh, yes,” said she. “They have guns and swords and pistols
and axes and—and—”
“And what?” demanded Lugui.
“And cannons!”
The three wicked ones groaned aloud and Beni said, in a hollow voice:
“I hope they will kill us quickly and not put us to the torture. I have
been told these Americans are painted Indians, who are bloodthirsty and
terrible.”
“’Tis so!” gasped the fat man, with a shudder.
Suddenly Martha turned from the window.
“You are my friends, are you not?” she asked.
“We are devoted!” answered Victor.
“We adore you!” cried Beni.
“We would die for you!” added Lugui, thinking he was about to die
anyway.
“Then I will save you,” said the girl.
“How?” asked the three, with one voice.
“Get back into the chest,” she said. “I will then close the
lid, so they will be unable to find you.”
They looked around the room in a dazed and irresolute way, but she exclaimed:
“You must be quick! They will soon be here to arrest you.”
Then Lugui sprang into the chest and lay flat upon the bottom. Beni tumbled in
next and packed himself in the back side. Victor followed after pausing to kiss
her hand to the girl in a graceful manner.
Then Martha ran up to press down the lid, but could not make it catch.
“You must squeeze down,” she said to them.
Lugui groaned.
“I am doing my best, miss,” said Victor, who was nearest the top;
“but although we fitted in very nicely before, the chest now seems rather
small for us.”
“’Tis so!” came the muffled voice of the fat man from the
bottom.
“I know what takes up the room,” said Beni.
“What?” inquired Victor, anxiously.
“The pie,” returned Beni.
“’Tis so!” came from the bottom, in faint accents.
Then Martha sat upon the lid and pressed it down with all her weight. To her
great delight the lock caught, and, springing down, she exerted all her
strength and turned the key.
This story should teach us not to interfere in matters that do not concern us.
For had Martha refrained from opening Uncle Walter’s mysterious chest she
would not have been obliged to carry downstairs all the plunder the robbers had
brought into the attic.
