“Perhaps,” remarked Willis, “it is Socialist or Red Republican in its notions.”

“It does not, however, patronise war,” replied Jack; “I once heard of it having melted a sword and left the scabbard intact.”

“That, to say the least of it, is improbable,” remarked Fritz.  “The hilt, or even the point, might have been fused; but even supposing the electric fluid to have been capable of such flagrant preference, the scabbard could not have held molten metal without being itself consumed.”

“Aye,” remarked Willis, “there are plenty of non-sensical stories of that kind in circulation, because nobody takes the trouble to test their truth.  Still, according to your own account, a man or woman runs no danger from the lightning.”

“I beg your pardon there, Willis; the electric fluid does not go out of its way to attack a human being, but if one should-happen to be in its way, it does not take time to request that individual to stand aside, it simply passes through him, and leaves him or her, as the case may be, a coagulated mass of inanimate tissues.”

“What a variety of ways there are of getting out of the world!” said Willis lugubriously.

“Again,” continued Jack, “anything that happens to be in the vicinity of the clouds when this interchange of courtesies is going on, is apt to draw the storm upon itself, hence the continual war that is carried on between the lightning and the steeples.”

“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.”

“Ah! that is the way you insure your lives, is it, trusting to the priests rather than to Providence?  For my own part, I should prefer a policy of insurance—­that is to say, if my life were of any value.”

“Next to steeples,” continued Jack, “come tall trees, such as poplars and pines.  Should you ever be caught by a storm in the open country, Willis, never take shelter under a tree; face the storm bravely, and submit to be deluged by the rain.  Dread even bushes, if they are isolated.  An entire forest is less dangerous than a single reed when it stands alone.”