"Something like an individual coming within range of a cloud of mosquitoes," suggested Willis.
"A learned German—one of us," said the scapegrace, laughing, "calculated, in 1783, that in the space of thirty-three years there had been, to his own knowledge, three hundred and eighty-six spires struck, and a hundred and twenty bell-ringers killed by lightning, without reckoning a much larger number wounded."
"And yet," remarked Willis, "I never heard of an insurance against accidents by lightning."
"There are plenty of them, however, in Roman Catholic countries," said Fritz. "Every village has one, and the charge is almost nominal."
"How, then, do these companies make it pay?"
"They find it answer somehow, and they never collapse."
"Then everybody ought to insure."
"Yes, but there are some obstinate people who do not see the good of it."
"If my life had not already been forfeited, I should insure it. But how is it done?"
"Well, you have only to go into a church, fall down on your knees before the priest, he will make you invulnerable by a sign of the cross; then, come storms that pulverize the body or crush the mind, you are perfectly safe."