'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.