“Superb, are they not?” said Peter, as he wheeled and stood looking at the row of monoliths supporting the roof of the huge granite pile, each column in relief against the dark shadows of the portico.  “And they are never so beautiful to me, my boy, as when the ugly parts of the old building are lost in the fog.  Follow the lines of these watchmen of the temple!  These grave, dignified, majestic columns standing out in the gloom keeping guard!  But it is only a question of time—­down they’ll come!  See if they don’t!”

“They will never dare move them,” I protested.  “It would be too great a sacrilege.”  The best way to get Peter properly started is never to agree with him.

“Not move them!  They will break them up for dock-filling before ten years are out.  They’re in the way, my boy; they shut out the light; can’t hang signs on them; can’t plaster them over with theatre bills; no earthly use.  ’Wall Street isn’t Rome or any other excavated ruin; it’s the centre of the universe’—­that’s the way the fellows behind these glass windows talk.”  Here Peter pointed to the offices of some prominent bankers, where other belated clerks were still at work under shaded gas-jets.  “These fellows don’t want anything classic; they want something 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.