We were now opposite the Sub-Treasury, its roof lost in the settling fogs, the bronze figure of the Father of His Country dominating the flight of marble steps and the adjacent streets.
Again Peter wheeled; this time he lifted his hat to the statue.
“Good evening, your Excellency,” he said in a voice mellowed to the same respectful tone with which he would have addressed the original in the flesh.
Suddenly he loosened his arm from mine and squared himself so he could look into my face.
“I notice that you seldom salute him, Major, and it grieves me,” he said with a grim smile.
I broke into a laugh. “Do you think he would feel hurt if I didn't.”
“Of course he would, and so should you. He wasn't put there for ornament, my boy, but to be kept in mind, and I want to tell you that there's no place in the world where his example is so much needed as right here in Wall Street. Want of reverence, my dear boy”—here he adjusted his umbrella to the hollow of his arm—“is our national sin. Nobody reveres anything now-a-days. Much as you can do to keep people from running railroads through your family vaults, and, as to one's character, all a man needs to get himself battered black and blue, is to try to be of some service to his country. Even our presidents have to be murdered before we stop abusing them. By Jove! Major, you've GOT to salute him! You're too fine a man to run to seed and lose your respect for things worth while. I won't have it, I tell you! Off with your hat!”
I at once uncovered my head (the fog helped to conceal my own identity, if it didn't Peter's) and stood for a brief instant in a respectful attitude.
There was nothing new in the discussion. Sometimes I would laugh at him; sometimes I would only touch my hat in unison; sometimes I let him do the bowing alone, an act on his part which never attracted attention—looking more as if he had accosted some passing friend.
We had reached Broadway by this time and were crossing the street opposite Trinity Churchyard.