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.”