By Mark Twain
The man in the ticket-office said：
“Have an accident insurance ticket， also？”
“No，” I said， after studying the matter over a little. “No， Ibelieve not； I am going to be traveling by rail all day today.
However， tomorrow I don’t travel. Give me one for tomorrow.”
The man looked puzzled. He said：
“But it is for accident insurance， and if you are going totravel by rail—”
“If I am going to travel by rail I sha’n’t need it. Lying athome in bed is the thing I am afraid of.”
I had been looking into this matter. Last year I traveledtwenty thousand miles， almost entirely by rail； the year before，I traveled over twenty-five thousand miles， half by sea and halfby rail； and the year before that I traveled in the neighborhoodof ten thousand miles， exclusively by rail. I suppose if I putin all the little odd journeys here and there， I may say I havetraveled sixty thousand miles during the three years I havementioned. AND NEVER AN ACCIDENT.
For a good while I said to myself every morning： “Now Ihave escaped thus far， and so the chances are just that muchincreased that I shall catch it this time. I will be shrewd， andbuy an accident ticket.” And to a dead moral certainty I drewa blank， and went to bed that night without a joint started or abone splintered. I got tired of that sort of daily bother， and fellto buying accident tickets that were good for a month. I said tomyself， “A man CAN’t buy thirty blanks in one bundle.”
But I was mistaken. There was never a prize in the the lot.
I could read of railway accidents every day—the newspaperatmosphere was foggy with them； but somehow they nevercame my way. I found I had spent a good deal of money inthe accident business， and had nothing to show for it. Mysuspicions were aroused， and I began to hunt around forsomebody that had won in this lottery. I found plenty of peoplewho had invested， but not an individual that had ever had anaccident or made a cent. I stopped buying accident tickets andwent to ciphering. The result was astounding. THE PERILLAY NOT IN TRAVELING， BUT IN STAYING AT HOME.
I hunted up statistics， and was amazed to find that after all theglaring newspaper headlines concerning railroad disasters， lessthan THREE HUNDRED people had really lost their lives bythose disasters in the preceding twelve months. The Erie roadwas set down as the most murderous in the list. It had killedforty-six—or twenty-six， I do not exactly remember which， but Iknow the number was double that of any other road. But the factstraightway suggested itself that the Erie was an immensely longroad， and did more business than any other line in the country；so the double number of killed ceased to be matter for surprise.