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