A man called on me the other day with the idea of insuring my life. Now, I detest life-insurance agents; they always argue that I shall some day die, which is not so. I have been insured a great many times, for about a month at a time, but have had no luck with it at all.
So I made up my mind that I would outwit this man at his own game. I let him talk straight ahead and encouraged him all I could, until he finally left me with a sheet of questions which I was to answer as an applicant. Now this was what I was waiting for; I had decided that, if that company wanted information about me, they should have it, and have the very best quality I could supply. So I spread the sheet of questions before me, and drew up a set of answers for them, which, I hoped, would settle for ever all doubts as to my eligibility for insurance.
Question.—What is your age?
Answer.—I can't think.
Q.—What is your chest measurement?
A.—Nineteen inches.
Q.—What is your chest expansion?
A.—Half an inch.
Q.—What is your height?
A.—Six feet five, if erect, but less when I walk on all fours.
Q.—Is your grandfather dead?
A.—Practically.
Q.—Cause of death, if dead?
A.—Dipsomania, if dead.
Q.—Is your father dead?
A.—To the world.
Q.—Cause of death?
A.—Hydrophobia.