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.
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