g that'll earn four per cent."

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.

"Come over here with me," he cried, "and let us look in through the iron
railings. The study of the dead is often more profitable than knowledge
of the living. Ah, the gate is open! It is not often I am here at this
time, and on a foggy afternoon. What a noble charity, my boy, is a
fog--it hides such a multitude of sins--bad architecture for one," and
he laughed softly.

I always let Peter run on--in