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Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Strive and
Succeed; or, The Progress of Walter Conrad
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
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are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
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eBook.

Title: Strive and Succeed; or, The Progress of Walter Conrad

Author: Jr. Horatio Alger

Release date: December 19, 2017 [eBook #56207]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRIVE AND

SUCCEED; OR, THE PROGRESS OF WALTER CONRAD ***
 STRIVE AND SUCCEED
OR

THE PROGRESS OF WALTER CONRAD

BY
HORATIO ALGER, Jr.
AUTHOR OF “ERIE TRAIN BOY,” “YOUNG ACROBAT,”
“ONLY AN IRISH BOY,” “BOUND TO RISE,”
“STRONG AND STEADY,” “JULIUS,
THE STREET BOY,” ETC.

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
ALGER SERIES FOR BOYS.
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.
By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.
Adrift in New York.
A Cousin’s Conspiracy.
Andy Gordon.
Andy Grant’s Pluck.
Bob Burton.
Bound to Rise.
Brave and Bold.
Cash Boy.
Chester Rand.
Do and Dare.
Driven from Home.
Erie Train Boy.
Facing the World.
Five Hundred Dollars.
Frank’s Campaign.
Grit.
Hector’s Inheritance.
Helping Himself.
Herbert Caster’s Legacy.
In a New World.
Jack’s Ward.
Jed, the Poor House Boy.
Joe’s Luck.
Julius, the Street Boy.
Luke Walton.
Making His Way.
Mark Mason.
Only an Irish Boy.
Paul, the Peddler.
Phil, the Fiddler.
Ralph Raymond’s Heir.
Risen from the Ranks.
Sam’s Chance.
Shifting for Himself.
Sink or Swim.
Slow and Sure.
Store Boy.
Strive and Succeed.
Strong and Steady.
Struggling Upward.
Tin Box.
Tom, the Bootblack.
Tony, the Tramp.
Try and Trust.
Wait and Hope.
Walter Sherwood’s Probation.
Young Acrobat.
Young Adventurer.
Young Outlaw.
Young Salesman.

Price, Post-Paid, 35c. each, or any three books for $1.00.

HURST & COMPANY

Publishers, New York.
 TO

MY YOUNG FRIENDS,

ISABELLA AND EDWIN,

THIS VOLUME

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
 PREFACE.

“Strive and Succeed” is reprinted from the pages of Young Israel, a

New York juvenile magazine, to which it was contributed as a serial.
It is complete in itself, and can be read independently; but those
who have read its predecessor, “Strong and Steady,” may be
interested to learn that it traces the subsequent career of Walter
Conrad, showing how he continued to paddle his own canoe, and
chronicles the adventures of Joshua Drummond after his flight from
home.
As Walter’s success as a teacher at the West may seem to some
improbable, in view of his youth, I am led to say that I know of more
than one case equally remarkable, in particular that of a gentleman
since prominent as a politician. The moral of the book is contained in
the title. As a rule of action, I recommend it confidently to all my
young readers.
New York, Oct. 1, 1872.
STRIVE AND SUCCEED.
 CHAPTER I

WALTER CONRAD’S MISSION.

A long train was running at moderate speed over a Wisconsin

railroad. Among the passengers was a stout, gentlemanly-looking
boy, who looked much more than sixteen, although he had not yet
reached that age. On the seat beside him was a large carpetbag,
which contained all the clothing he carried with him. As the
conductor passed through the car, the boy asked:
“Are we near Benton?”
“It is the next station.”
“Is that the place to take the stage for Portville?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me how far I shall have to ride in the stage?”
“A matter of ten miles or thereabouts.”
“Thank you.”
The conductor passed on, and the boy began to shake the dust
from his coat, and, opening his carpetbag, deposited therein a copy
of Harper’s Magazine which he had been reading. I may as well
introduce him at once to the reader as Walter Conrad, whose
previous adventures have been related in “Strong and Steady.” For
the benefit of such of my present readers as have not read this
volume, I will sketch his history in brief.
Walter Conrad, then, not quite a year since, had received, when at
boarding school, the unexpected intelligence of his father’s serious
illness. On reaching home, he found his parent dead. Subsequently
he learned that his father had bought shares to the extent of a
hundred thousand dollars in the Great Metropolitan Mining Company,
and through the failure of this company had probably lost
everything. This intelligence had doubtless hastened his death.
Walter was, of course, obliged to leave school, and accepted
temporarily an invitation from Mr. Jacob Drummond, of Stapleton, a
remote kinsman, to visit him. In extending the invitation Mr.
Drummond was under the illusion that Walter was the heir to a large
property. On learning the truth, his manner was changed completely,
and Walter, finding himself no longer welcome as a guest, proposed
to enter Mr. Drummond’s store as a clerk. Being a strong and
capable boy, he was readily received on board wages. The board,
however, proved to be very poor, and his position was made more
disagreeable by Joshua Drummond, three years older than himself,
who, finding he could get nothing out of him, took a dislike to him.
Walter finally left Mr. Drummond’s employ, and, led by his love of
adventure, accepted an offer to travel as a book agent in Ohio. Here
he was successful, though he met with one serious adventure,
involving him in some danger, but was finally led to abandon the
business at the request of Clement Shaw, his father’s executor, for
the following reason:
The head of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, through
whom his father had been led to invest his entire fortune in it, was a
man named James Wall, a specious and plausible man, through
whose mismanagement it was believed it had failed. He was strongly
suspected of conspiring to make a fortune out of it at the expense of
the other stockholders. He had written to Mr. Shaw, offering the sum
of two thousand dollars for the thousand shares now held by Walter,
an offer which the executor did not feel inclined to accept until he
knew that it was made in good faith. He, therefore, wrote to Walter
to change his name and go on to Portville, the home of Mr. Wall, and
there use all his shrewdness to discover what he could of the
position of the mining company, and Mr. Wall’s designs in relation
thereto. It may be added that after selling the balance of the estate,
Walter was found entitled to five hundred dollars. He had, besides,
cleared eighty-seven dollars net profit on his sales as book agent.
 Such is Walter’s story, though, for the present, we shall have to
call our hero Gilbert Howard--an assumed name, which he had
adopted at the executor’s suggestion, lest his real name might excite
the suspicions of Mr. Wall and so defeat the purpose of his journey.
Walter had scarcely made his preparations to leave the cars, when
the whistle sounded, and the train, gradually slackening its speed,
came to a stop.
“Benton!” called the conductor, rapidly, half opening the door.
“I am near my journey’s end,” thought Walter.
Several passengers descended from the train and gathered on the
platform. Among them, of course, was our hero.
A shabby-looking stage stood just beside the station house.
Knowing that it was a ten miles’ journey, and important to get a
comfortable seat, Walter passed through the building, and took a
seat inside. Several other passengers followed leisurely until the
carriage was nearly full. While Walter was wondering how soon they
would start, a gentleman, accompanied by a boy of about Walter’s
age, approached the driver, who was about to take his seat.
“Didn’t you see anything of my carriage, Abner?”
“No, General Wall,” said Abner, respectfully. “I didn’t see it
anywhere on the road.”
“That is very strange,” muttered Mr. Wall, discontentedly. “I told
Henry to drive over for me. Are you sure you might not have passed
without seeing it?”
“I’d have seed it if it had been on the road,” said Abner, with more
emphasis than strict adherence to grammatical rules.
“I suppose we must ride with you, then,” said Mr. Wall. “Can you
give us seats inside?”
The driver came to the door, and, opening it, looked in.
“There’s one seat,” he said. “Your son can ride outside with me.”
 John Wall evidently did not fancy this arrangement. The fact was
that it was beginning to sprinkle, and, being nicely dressed, he did
not want to get wet.
“I want to ride inside,” he said.
“I’d like to accommodate you,” said the driver, “but there’s only
room for one.”
“I don’t see why I haven’t as good right to a seat inside as
anybody else,” said John, in a grumbling tone.
John Wall was rather a stout, freckle-faced boy, dressed with some
pretension to style, and sporting a pair of kid gloves. He secretly
considered himself to be unusually good-looking, and on the
strength of his father’s wealth gave himself airs of superiority to
which he was not entitled. His manners were decidedly arrogant and
overbearing, and he was far from being a favorite in Portville,
although a great many things, which would not have been excused
in another less favored by fortune, were forgiven him on account of
his father’s wealth.
“I’d like to stretch the inside of the stage if I could,” said Abner,
good-naturedly, “but that ain’t easy.”
“You may sit in my lap, John,” said his father.
“I’d rather not,” said John, sullenly.
“Then I think you will have to make up your mind to sit with
Abner.”
“I ain’t going to spoil my clothes,” growled the discontented boy.
“Here is an umbrella for you,” said his father.
Meanwhile John had been peering into the coach and espied
Walter on the back seat. Accustomed to regard his own convenience
as a matter of more importance than that of anybody else, he was
led to make a very selfish proposal.
“There’s a boy inside,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll get outside and give
me his seat.”
 This proposal struck Walter as refreshingly cool, but having a
sense of what was due to himself, and always having been in the
habit of standing up for his rights, he did not propose to gratify
John.
“Thank you,” said he, dryly; “I’d rather keep my seat.”
“But I don’t want to get wet.”
“Nor I,” said Walter.
“I don’t see why I haven’t as much right to ride inside as he,”
grumbled John, turning to the driver.
“So you would, and better, too, if you’d got in first,” said Abner,
rather disgusted at John’s selfishness. “But I must be starting. So if
you’re going along with me, you’d better climb up.”
“I’ll give you twenty-five cents if you’ll give me your seat,” said
John, making a last appeal to Walter.
“Thank you,” said Walter, coldly; “I’m not in want of money.”
“Get up without any more fuss, John,” said his father, impatiently.
Very discontentedly John climbed up to the box and took his seat
beside the driver. He felt very angry with our hero for declining to
sacrifice his own convenience to him. It appeared to him that, as the
son of General Wall, the richest man in Portville, he had a right to
the best of everything.
“Do you know who that boy is, that wouldn’t give me his seat?” he
asked of Abner.
“Never saw him before,” said the driver.
“Is he going to Portville?”
“Yes, so he told me.”
“Do you know where he is going to stop?”
“No, he didn’t tell me.”
“Do you think it’s going to rain much?”
 “I reckon it will be a smart sprinkle. You’d better take off them kid
gloves of your’n if you don’t want them spoiled.”
“I don’t see why that boy wouldn’t give me his seat. He hasn’t got
on as good clothes as I have,” grumbled John.
“Well, if your clothes are spoiled your father’s got money enough
to buy you some new ones,” said Abner.
“That’s true,” said John, with an air of importance. “My father’s
very rich.”
“I expect you’ll be rich, too, some day,” said Abner.
“I expect I shall,” said John, complacently. “I’m going to be a
lawyer.”
“All right,” said the driver, jocosely; “I’ll give you all my law
business.”
“Oh, I shan’t settle down here,” said John, loftily. “I’m going to
Detroit or Chicago. I want to be in a big place.”
“I reckon you’ll be too smart for Portville,” said Abner, with sly
sarcasm.
“I guess I can do as well as any of the city lawyers,” said John. “I
am reading Cæsar already.”
“Who’s he?”
“A Latin author.”
“You don’t say! You must know a mighty lot.”
“Oh, it ain’t hard when you’re used to it,” said John,
condescendingly.
The rain subsided, and John had the satisfaction of saving his
clothes from injury, so that he ended the journey in a more amiable
frame of mind than could have been anticipated.
 CHAPTER II

THE SON OF GENERAL WALL.

Mr. Wall, or General Wall, as he was commonly designated in

Portville, as a kind of tribute to his wealth, for he had no other right
to the title, took a seat opposite Walter. Our hero examined him with
some attention. This, then, was the man who had ruined his father
by his plausible misrepresentations--who even now, perhaps, was
conspiring to defraud him, and probably others. Under ordinary
circumstances he would have been favorably impressed by his
appearance. He had a popular manner, and was quite a good-looking
man, much more agreeable than his son, who, it was safe to predict,
would never win popularity unless his manners were greatly changed
for the better.
“Well, general,” said one of the passengers, “have you been on a
journey?”
“Only to the county town. I had some business at the probate
office.”
“Been buyin’ any real estate?”
“I have just purchased Mr. Newton’s place. I had a mortgage on it,
and we agreed to make a bargain.”
“I wonder whether he bought it with my father’s money,” thought
Walter, rather bitterly, for he felt that the man opposite was
responsible not alone for his loss of fortune, but for his father’s
sudden death.
 “It’s a nice place,” said the other.
“Yes, a pretty good place. I didn’t need it, but Mr. Newton wanted
to sell, and I accommodated him.”
“How’s that mining company coming out?” was the next question.
Walter listened eagerly for the answer.
“Why,” said Mr. Wall, cautiously, “that isn’t easy to say just yet. We
may realize five per cent. I can’t tell yet.”
Five per cent.! In the letter containing the offer General Wall had
only hinted at two per cent., and based his offer upon this.
Supposing only five per cent. were saved out of the wreck, that on
Walter’s thousand shares would amount to five thousand dollars,
instead of two--a very material increase.
“I am already paid for my journey by this intelligence,” thought
Walter. “I shouldn’t wonder if I got considerably more out of it in the
end.”
“What was the cause of the break-up?” asked the other passenger,
who seemed to be propounding questions in Walter’s interest.
“Why,” said General Wall, slowly, “it cost a good deal more to work
the mine than we expected, and the first indications promised much
better than the mine afterward realized.”
“Have they stopped working it?”
“Well, yes, for the present. But there’s a prospect of selling it out
to a new company with larger means. Of course, we shan’t realize
much. I shall be a heavy loser myself.”
“I don’t believe that,” thought Walter.
“You ain’t often bit, I reckon, general,” said his questioner.
“Well, I lay claim to a fair share of judgment,” said General Wall,
“but you know we are all liable to be deceived. I’ve lost nigh on to
thirty thousand dollars, I reckon, by this affair. However, I expect to
keep my head above water,” he added, complacently. “I mean to
come out of it as well as I can.”
 “’Tain’t every man that can lose thirty thousand dollars and think
no more of it,” said the other, who appeared to act as a sort of toady
to the great man, so much influence does wealth exert even over
those who don’t expect to gain anything by their subservience to it.
“Why, no, I suppose not,” said Wall, in the same complacent tone.
“I shall be left tolerably well off, even if I do lose the full value of my
stock. I’ve been luckier in some of my investments.”
“Well, I haven’t lost anything, because I hadn’t got anything to
lose,” said his fellow-passenger; “that is, outside of my farm. Me and
the old woman manage to pick up a living off that, and that’s all we
reckon on. There ain’t much money in farmin’.”
“Suppose not,” said the general. “Still, Mr. Blodgett,” he added,
patronizingly, “you farmers are not subject to so many cares and
anxieties as we men of business. You are more independent.”
“It’s hard work and poor pay,” answered the farmer. “It ain’t easy
to get forehanded.”
“If you ever have a small surplus to invest, Mr. Blodgett, I may be
able to put you in the way of making something out of it.”
“Thank you, General Wall. Maybe I’ll remind you of it some day. I
might have a little over.”
“No matter how little. I can add it to some of my own funds. I
should like to help you to make a little something.”
“Thank you, general. I’m much obliged to you. I’ll talk to Betsy
about it, and maybe I’ll see you again.”
“Any time, Mr. Blodgett. It’s no object to me, of course, but I like
to see my neighbors prosperous.”
The conversation now took another turn, in which Walter was not
so much interested. He wondered whether General Wall really meant
honestly by the farmer, or whether he only wanted to get his money
into his possession.
 He was not naturally suspicious, but knowing what he did of Wall
he felt inclined to doubt whether he was quite as disinterested as he
appeared.
They had a little more than half completed the ten miles which
separated them from Portville, when a passenger got out. This left a
vacancy, and John Wall, descending from his elevated perch, made
his appearance at the door of the coach.
“Did you get much rain, John?” asked his father.
“My kid gloves are spoiled,” grumbled John.
“Why didn’t you take them off? Didn’t you have another pair in
your pocket?”
“I don’t like to wear woollen gloves. They ain’t stylish.”
“I am afraid, John, you are getting a little aristocratic,” said his
father.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” said John.
“Now I am perfectly willing to wear woollen gloves,” said the
general, who wanted to be popular, and so avoided putting on airs,
“or no gloves at all,” looking around to observe the effect of his
republican speech. “Kid gloves do not make a man any better.”
Meanwhile John had taken the vacant place. But it happened to be
on the front seat, and so, of course, he had to ride backward. Now
John fancied that he should prefer to sit on the back seat, as it
would enable him to look out of the window, besides being on the
whole more agreeable. Walter, having his choice of seats, had on
entering taken one of the back ones. John conceived the idea of
exchanging with him, without considering that our hero might
possibly prefer to retain his, to which he was fairly entitled by prior
possession.
“I don’t like to ride backward,” said John.
“Why not?” asked his father.
 “I can’t look out of the window.” Then, addressing Walter, “Change
seats with me, will you?”
“That is pretty cool,” thought Walter.
“Thank you,” he answered, coldly, “but I prefer to remain where I
am.”
“But I don’t like to ride backward,” grumbled John.
“Nor do I,” returned Walter.
John was indignant at the refusal. That he, the son of General
Wall, should have to sit in an inferior seat, while a boy who did not
wear kid gloves occupied a better one, was very vexatious. He
frowned at Walter, but the latter was by no means annihilated by the
frown. Indeed, from what he was able to judge of John Wall, he felt
a degree of satisfaction in disappointing him.
“I will change seats with you, John,” said his father, “if you are so
anxious to look out of the window.”
“I’ll give him my seat,” said the farmer. “I don’t mind riding
backward; and, as for seein’ out, I know the road by heart.”
Without a word of thanks John took the proffered seat, and this
brought him next to Walter. He eyed our hero attentively, but could
not make up his mind as to his social position. Walter was well
dressed in a neatly fitting suit, but the cloth was not as fine as his.
John glanced at his hands, which were encased in a pair of woollen
gloves. On the other hand, our hero wore a gold watch and chain--
his father’s--and so he might be worth noticing.
“What’s your name?” asked John.
“You may call me Gilbert Howard.”
“Are you going to Portville?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got any relations there?”
“Not that I know of.”
 “Are you going to stay long?”
“That depends on circumstances.”
“Where are you going to stop?”
“At the hotel, I suppose. There is one, isn’t there?”
“Yes. It is called the Portville House.”
“Then I shall go there.”
John was about to continue his questions when Walter thought it
was his turn.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“John Wall,” replied John. “My father is General Wall,” he added, in
a tone of some importance.
“Do you live in Portville?”
“Yes.”
“Where have you been?”
“On a journey,” answered John, stiffly, thinking to himself that
Walter was very impertinent. It did not occur to him that it is a poor
rule that will not work both ways.
“What is your business?” John asked, preferring to question rather
than be questioned. “Are you a peddler?”
“No,” said Walter, coolly. “Are you?”
John glared at his questioner feeling deeply insulted, and did not
deign a reply. That he, the son of General Wall, the richest man in
Portville, should be asked if he were a peddler was something his
pride could not brook. Walter ought to have been annihilated by his
look, but he stood it unflinchingly, secretly amused at the effectual
manner in which he had silenced his questioner.
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