Bound to Rise

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BOUND TO RISE

Or

UP THE LADDER

BY Horatio Alger, Jr.

AUTHOR OF

"PAUL, THE. PEDDLER," "PHIL, THE FIDDLER," "STRIVE AND SUCCEED,"
"HERRERT CARTER'S LEGACY," "JACK'S WARD," "SHIFTING FOR HIMSELF,"
ETC.

BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

Horatio Alger, Jr., an author who lived among and for boys and
himself remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born
at Revere, Mass., January 18, 1884. He was the son of a clergyman;
was graduated at Harvard College in 1852, and at its Divinity School
in 1860; and was pastor of the Unitarian Church at Brewster, Mass.,
in 1862-66. In the latter year he settled in New York and began
drawing public attention to the condition and needs of street boys.
He mingled with them, gained their confidence, showed a personal
concern in their affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful
living. With his first story he won the hearts of all red-blooded
boys every-where, and of the seventy or more that followed over a
million copies were sold during the author's lifetime.

In his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed
man, with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused
all who met him. He died at Natick, Mass., July 18, 1899.

Mr. Alger's stories are as popular now as when first published,
because they treat of real live boys who were always up and about--just
like the boys found everywhere to-day. They are pure in tone and
inspiring in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of
New York may be traced to them. Among the best known are:

Strong and Steady; Strive and Succeed; Try and Trust: Bound
to Rise; Risen from the Ranks; Herbert Carter's Legacy; Brave and
Bold; Jack's Ward; Shifting for Himself; Wait and Hope; Paul the
Peddler; Phil the Fiddler: Slow and Sure: Julius the Street Boy;
Tom the Bootblack; Struggling Upward; Facing the World; The Cash
Boy; Making His Way; Tony the Tramp; Joe's Luck; Do and Dare: Only
an Irish Boy; Sink or Swim; A Cousin's Conspiracy; Andy Gordon; Bob
Burton; Harry Vane; Hector's Inheritance; Mark Manson's Triumph;
Sam's Chance; The Telegraph Boy; The Young Adventurer; The Young
Outlaw; The Young Salesman, and Luke Walton..

CHAPTER I

"Sit up to the table, children, breakfast's ready."

The speaker was a woman of middle age, not good-looking in
the ordinary acceptation of the term, but nevertheless she looked
good. She was dressed with extreme plainness, in a cheap calico;
but though cheap, the dress was neat. The children she addressed
were six in number, varying in age from twelve to four. The oldest,
Harry, the hero of the present story, was a broad-shouldered, sturdy
boy, with a frank, open face, resolute, though good-natured.

"Father isn't here," said Fanny, the second child.

"He'll be in directly. He went to the store, and he may stop as he
comes back to milk."

The table was set in the center of the room, covered with a coarse
tablecloth. The breakfast provided was hardly of a kind to tempt
an epicure. There was a loaf of bread cut into slices, and a dish
of boiled potatoes. There was no butter and no meat, for the family
were very poor.

The children sat up to the table and began to eat. They were
blessed with good appetites, and did not grumble, as the majority
of my readers would have done, at the scanty fare. They had not
been accustomed to anything better, and their appetites were not
pampered by indulgence.

They had scarcely commenced the meal when the father entered.
Like his wife, he was coarsely dressed. In personal appearance
he resembled his oldest boy. His wife looking up as he entered
perceived that he looked troubled.

"What is the matter, Hiram?" she asked. "You look as if something
had happened."

"Nothing has happened yet," he answered; "but I am afraid we are
going to lose the cow."

"Going to lose the cow!" repeated Mrs. Walton in dismay.

"She is sick. I don't know what's the matter with her."

"Perhaps it is only a trifle. She may get over it during the day."

"She may, but I'm afraid she won't. Farmer Henderson's cow was
taken just that way last fall, and he couldn't save her."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have been to Elihu Perkins, and he's coming over to see what he
can do for her. He can save her if anybody can."

The children listened to this conversation, and, young as they were,
the elder ones understood the calamity involved in the possible
loss of the cow. They had but one, and that was relied upon to
furnish milk for the family, and, besides a small amount of butter
and cheese, not for home consumption, but for sale at the store
in exchange for necessary groceries. The Waltons were too poor to
indulge in these luxuries.

The father was a farmer on a small scale; that is, he cultivated
ten acres of poor land, out of which he extorted a living for his
family, or rather a partial living. Besides this he worked for
his neighbors by the day, sometimes as a farm laborer, sometimes
at odd jobs of different kinds, for he was a sort of Jack at all
trades. But his income, all told, was miserably small, and required
the utmost economy and good management on the part of his wife to
make it equal to the necessity of a growing family of children.

Hiram Walton was a man of good natural abilities, though of not
much education, and after half an hour's conversation with him one
would say, unhesitatingly, that he deserved a better fate than his
hand-to-hand struggle with poverty. But he was one of those men
who, for some unaccountable reason, never get on in the world. They
can do a great many things creditably, but do not have the knack
of conquering fortune. So Hiram had always been a poor man, and
probably always would be poor. He was discontented at times, and
often felt the disadvantages of his lot, but he was lacking in
energy and ambition, and perhaps this was the chief reason why he
did not succeed better.

After breakfast Elihu Perkins, the "cow doctor," came to the door.
He was an old man with iron-gray hair, and always wore steel-bowed
spectacles; at least for twenty years nobody in the town could
remember ever having seen him without them. It was the general
opinion that he wore them during the night. Once when questioned
on the subject, he laughingly said that he "couldn't see to go to
sleep without his specs".

"Well, neighbor Walton, so the cow's sick?" he said, opening the
outer door without ceremony.

"Yes, Elihu, she looks down in the mouth. I hope you can save her."

"I kin tell better when I've seen the critter. When you've got
through breakfast, we'll go out to the barn."

"I've got through now," said Mr. Walton, whose anxiety for the cow
had diminished his appetite.

"May I go too, father?" asked Harry, rising from the table.

"Yes, if you want to."

The three went out to the small, weather-beaten building which
served as a barn for the want of a better. It was small, but still
large enough to contain all the crops which Mr. Walton could raise.
Probably he could have got more out of the land if he had had means
to develop its resources; but it was naturally barren, and needed
much more manure than he was able to spread over it.

So the yield to an acre was correspondingly small, and likely, from
year to year, to grow smaller rather than larger.

They opened the small barn door, which led to the part occupied by
the cow's stall. The cow was lying down, breathing with difficulty.
Elihu Perkins looked at her sharply through his "specs."

"What do you think of her, neighbor Perkins?" asked the owner,
anxiously.

The cow doctor shifted a piece of tobacco from one cheek to the
other, and looked wise.

"I think the critter's nigh her end," he said, at last.

"Is she so bad as that?"

"Pears like it. She looks like Farmer Henderson's that died a while
ago. I couldn't save her."

"Save my cow, if you can. I don't know what I should do without
her."

"I'll do my best, but you mustn't blame me if I can't bring her
round. You see there's this about dumb critters that makes 'em
harder to cure than human bein's. They can't tell their symptoms,
nor how they feel; and that's why it's harder to be a cow doctor
than a doctor for humans. You've got to go by the looks, and looks
is deceivin'. If I could only ask the critter how she feels, and
where she feels worst, I might have some guide to go by. Not but
I've had my luck. There's more'n one of 'em I've saved, if I do
say it myself."

"I know you can save her if anyone can, Elihu," said Mr. Walton,
who appreciated the danger of the cow, and was anxious to have the
doctor begin.

"Yes, I guess I know about as much about them critters as anybody,"
said the garrulous old man, who had a proper appreciation of his
dignity and attainments as a cow doctor. "I've had as good success
as anyone I know on. If I can't cure her, you may call her a gone
case. Have you got any hot water in the house?"

"I'll go in and see."

"I'll go, father," said Harry.

"Well, come right back. We have no time to lose."

Harry appreciated the need of haste as well as his father, and
speedily reappeared with a pail of hot water.

"That's right, Harry," said his father. "Now you'd better go into
the house and do your chores, so as not to be late for school."

Harry would have liked to remain and watch the steps which were
being taken for the recovery of the cow; but he knew he had barely
time to do the "chores" referred to before school, and he was far
from wishing to be late there. He had an ardent thirst for learning,
and, young as he was, ranked first in the district school which he
attended. I am not about to present my young hero as a marvel of
learning, for he was not so. He had improved what opportunities he
had enjoyed, but these were very limited. Since he was nine years
of age, his schooling had been for the most part limited to eleven
weeks in the year. There was a summer as well as a winter school;
but in the summer he only attended irregularly, being needed to
work at home. His father could not afford to hire help, and there
were many ways in which Harry, though young, could help him. So it
happened that Harry, though a tolerably good scholar, was deficient
in many respects, on account of the limited nature of his opportunities.

He set to work at once at the chores. First he went to the woodpile
and sawed and split a quantity of wood, enough to keep the kitchen
stove supplied till he came home again from school in the afternoon.
This duty was regularly required of him. His father never touched
the saw or the ax, but placed upon Harry the general charge of the
fuel department.

After sawing and splitting what he thought to be sufficient,
he carried it into the house by armfuls, and piled it up near the
kitchen stove. He next drew several buckets of water from the well,
for it was washing day, brought up some vegetables from the cellar
to boil for dinner, and then got ready for school.

CHAPTER II

A CALAMITY

Efforts for the recovery of the cow went on. Elihu Perkins
exhausted all his science in her behalf. I do not propose to detail
his treatment, because I am not sure whether it was the best, and
possibly some of my readers might adopt it under similar circumstances,
and then blame me for its unfortunate issue. It is enough to say
that the cow grew rapidly worse in spite of the hot-water treatment,
and about eleven o'clock breathed her last. The sad intelligence
was announced by Elihu, who first perceived it.

"The critter's gone," he said. "'Tain't no use doin' anything more."

"The cow's dead!" repeated Mr. Walton, sorrowfully. He had known
for an hour that this would be the probable termination of the
disease. Still while there was life there was hope. Now both went
out together.

"Yes, the critter's dead!" said Elihu, philosophically, for he lost
nothing by her. "It was so to be, and there wa'n't no help for it.
That's what I thought from the fust, but I was willin' to try."

"Wasn't there anything that could have saved her?"

Elihu shook his head decidedly.

"If she could a-been saved, I could 'ave done it," he said. "What
I don't know about cow diseases ain't wuth knowin'."

Everyone is more or less conceited. Elihu's conceit was as to his
scientific knowledge on the subject of cows and horses and their
diseases. He spoke so confidently that Mr. Walton did not venture
to dispute him.

"I s'pose you're right, Elihu," he said; "but it's hard on me."

"Yes, neighbor, it's hard on you, that's a fact. What was she wuth?"

"I wouldn't have taken forty dollars for her yesterday."

"Forty dollars is a good sum."

"It is to me. I haven't got five dollars in the world outside of
my farm."

"I wish I could help you, neighbor Walton, but I'm a poor man
myself."

"I know you are, Elihu. Somehow it doesn't seem fair that my only
cow should be taken, when Squire Green has got ten, and they're all
alive and well. If all his cows should die, he could buy as many
more and not feel the loss."

"Squire Green's a close man."

"He's mean enough, if he is rich."

"Sometimes the richest are the meanest."

"In his case it is true."

"He could give you a cow just as well as not. If I was as rich as
he, I'd do it."

"I believe you would, Elihu; but there's some difference between
you and him."

"Maybe the squire would lend you money to buy a cow. He always
keeps money to lend on high interest."

Mr. Walton reflected a moment, then said slowly, "I must have a
cow, and I don't know of any other way, but I hate to go to him."

"He's the only man that's likely to have money to lend in town."

"Well, I'll go."

"Good luck to you, neighbor Walton."

"I need it enough," said Hiram Walton, soberly. "If it comes, it'll
be the first time for a good many years."

"Well, I'll be goin', as I can't do no more good."

Hiram Walton went into the house, and a look at his face told his
wife the news he brought before his lips uttered it.

"Is she dead, Hiram?"

"Yes, the cow's dead. Forty dollars clean gone," he said, rather
bitterly.

"Don't be discouraged, Hiram. It's bad luck, but worse things might
happen."

"Such as what?"

"Why, the house might burn down, or--or some of us might fall sick
and die. It's better that it should be the cow."

"You're right there; but though it's pleasant to have so many
children round, we shan't like to see them starving."

"They are not starving yet, and please God they won't yet awhile.
Some help will come to us."

Mrs. Walton sometimes felt despondent herself, but when she saw
her husband affected, like a good wife she assumed cheerfulness,
in order to raise his spirits. So now, things looked a little more
hopeful to him, after he had talked to his wife. He soon took his
hat, and approached the door.

"Where are you going, Hiram?" she asked.

"Going to see if Squire Green will lend me money; enough to buy
another cow."

"That's right, Hiram. Don't sit down discouraged, but see what you
can do to repair the loss."

"I wish there was anybody else to go to. Squire Green is a very
mean man, and he will try to take advantage of any need."

"It is better to have a poor resource than none at all."

"Well, I'll go and see what can be done."

Squire Green was the rich man of the town. He had inherited from
his father, just as he came of age, a farm of a hundred and fifty
acres, and a few hundred dollars.

The land was not good, and far from productive; but he had scrimped
and saved and pinched and denied himself, spending almost nothing,
till the little money which the farm annually yielded him had
accumulated to a considerable sum. Then, too, as there were no
banks near at hand to accommodate borrowers, the squire used to
lend money to his poorer neighbors. He took care not to exact more
than six per cent. openly, but it was generally understood that the
borrower must pay a bonus besides to secure a loan, which, added
to the legal interest, gave him a very handsome consideration for
the use of his spare funds. So his money rapidly increased, doubling
every five or six years through his shrewd mode of management, and
every year he grew more economical. His wife had died ten years
before. She had worked hard for very poor pay, for the squire's
table was proverbially meager, and her bills for dress, judging
from her appearance, must have been uncommonly small.

The squire had one son, now in the neighborhood of thirty, but he
had not been at home for several years. As soon as he attained his
majority he left the homestead, and set out to seek his fortune
elsewhere. He vowed he wouldn't any longer submit to the penurious
ways of the squire. So the old man was left alone, but he did not
feel the solitude. He had his gold, and that was company enough.
A time was coming when the two must part company, for when death
should come he must leave the gold behind; but he did not like
to think of that, putting away the idea as men will unpleasant
subjects. This was the man to whom Hiram Walton applied for help
in his misfortune.

"Is the squire at home?" he asked, at the back door. In that household
the front door was never used. There was a parlor, but it had not
been opened since Mrs. Green's funeral.

"He's out to the barn," said Hannah Green, a niece of the old man,
who acted as maid of all work.

"I'll go out there."

The barn was a few rods northeast of the house, and thither Mr.
Walton directed his steps.

Entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work.

"Good morning, Squire Green."

"Good morning, Mr. Walton," returned the squire.

He was a small man, with a thin figure, and a face deep seamed
with wrinkles, more so than might have been expected in a man of
his age, for he was only just turned of sixty; but hard work, poor
and scanty food and sharp calculation, were responsible for them.

"How are you gettin' on?" asked the squire.

This was rather a favorite question of his, it being so much the
custom for his neighbors to apply to him when in difficulties,
so that their misfortune he had come to regard as his harvests. .

"I've met with a loss," answered Hiram Walton.

"You don't say so," returned the squire, with instant attention.
"What's happened?"

"My cow is dead."

"When did she die?"

"This morning."

"What was the matter?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice but that she was welt enough last
night; but this morning when I went out to the barn, she was lying
down breathing heavily."

"What did you do?"

"I called in Elihu Perkins, and we worked over her for three hours;
but it wasn't of any use; she died half an hour ago."

"I hope it isn't any disease that's catchin'," said the squire in
alarm, thinking of his ten. "It would be a bad job if it should
get among mine."

"It's a bad job for me, squire. I hadn't but one cow, and she's
gone."

"Just so, just so. I s'pose you'll buy another."

"Yes, I must have a cow. My children live on bread and milk mostly.
Then there's the butter and cheese, that I trade off at the store
for groceries."

"Just so, just so. Come into the house, neighbor Walton."

The squire guessed his visitor's business in advance, and wanted
to take time to talk it over. He would first find out how great
his neighbor's necessity was, and then he accommodated him, would
charge him accordingly.

CHAPTER III

HIRAM'S MOTTO

There was a little room just off the kitchen, where the squire had
an old-fashioned desk. Here it was that he transacted his business,
and in the desk he kept his papers. It was into this room that he
introduced Mr. Walton.

"Set down, set down, neighbor Walton," he said. "We'll talk this
thing over. So you've got to have a cow?"

"Yes, I must have one."

The squire fixed his eyes cunningly on his intended victim, and
said, "Goin' to buy one in town?"

"I don't know of any that's for sale."

"How much do you calc'late to pay?"

"I suppose I'll have to pay thirty dollars."

Squire Green shook his head.

"More'n that, neighbor Walton. You can't get a decent cow for
thirty dollars. I hain't got one that isn't wuth more, though I've
got ten in my barn."

"Thirty dollars is all I can afford to pay, squire."

"Take my advice, and get a good cow while you're about it. It don't
pay to get a poor one."

"I'm a poor man, squire. I must take what I can get."

"I ain't sure but I've got a cow that will suit you, a red with
white spots. She's a fust-rate milker."

"How old is she?"

"She's turned of five."

"How much do you ask for her?"

"Are you going to pay cash down?" asked the squire, half shutting
his eyes, and looking into the face of his visitor.

"I can't do that. I'm very short of money."

"So am I," chimed in the squire. He had two hundred dollars in his
desk at that moment waiting for profitable investment; but then he
didn't call it exactly a lie to misrepresent for a purpose. "So am
I. Money's tight, neighbor."

"Money's always tight with me, squire," returned Hiram Walton, with
a sigh.

"Was you a-meanin' to pay anything down?" inquired the squire.

"I don't see how I can."

"That alters the case, you know. I might as well keep the cow, as
to sell her without the money down."

"I am willing to pay interest on the money."

"Of course that's fair. Wall, neighbor, what do you say to goin'
out to see the cow?"

"Is she in the barn?"

"No, she's in the pastur'. 'Tain't fur."

"I'll go along with you."

They made their way by a short cut across a cornfield to the
pasture--a large ten-acre lot, covered with a scanty vegetation.
The squire's cows could not be said to live in clover.

"That's the critter," he said, pointing out one of the cows which
was grazing near by. "Ain't she a beauty?"

"She looks pretty well," said Mr. Walton, dubiously, by no means
sure that she would equal his lost cow.

"She's one of the best I've got. I wouldn't sell ef it wasn't to
oblige. I ain't at all partic'lar, but I suppose you've got to hev
a cow."

"What do you ask for her, squire?"

"She's wuth all of forty dollars," answered the squire, who knew
perfectly well that a fair price would be about thirty. But then
his neighbor must have a cow, and had no money to pay, and so was
at his mercy.

"That seems high," said Hiram.

"She's wuth every cent of it; but I ain't nowise partic'lar about
sellin' her."

"Couldn't you say thirty-seven?"

"I couldn't take a dollar less. I'd rather keep her. Maybe I'd take
thirty-eight, cash down."

Hiram Walton shook his head.

"I have no cash," he said. "I must buy on credit."

"Wall, then, there's a bargain for you. I'll let you have her for
forty dollars, giving you six months to pay it, at reg'lar interest,
six per cent. Of course I expect a little bonus for the accommodation."

"I hope you'll be easy with me--I'm a poor man, squire."

"Of course, neighbor; I'm always easy."

"That isn't your reputation," thought Hiram; but he knew that this
was a thought to which he must not give expression.

"All I want is a fair price for my time and trouble. We'll say
three dollars extra for the accommodation--three dollars down."

Hiram Walton felt that it was a hard bargain the squire was driving
with him, but there seemed no help for it.

He must submit to the imposition, or do without a cow. There was
no one else to whom he could look for help on any terms. As to
the three dollars, his whole available cash amounted to but four
dollars, and it was for three quarters of this sum that the squire
called. But the sacrifice must be made.

"Well, Squire Green, if that is your lowest price, I suppose I must
come to it," he answered, at last.

"You can't do no better," said the squire, with alacrity.

"If so be as you've made up your mind, we'll make out the papers."

"Very well."

"Come back to the house. When do you want to take the cow?"

"I'll drive her along now, if you are willing."

"Why, you see," said the squire, hesitating, while a mean thought
entered his, mind, "she's been feedin' in my pastur' all the
mornin', and I calc'late I'm entitled to the next milkin', you'd
better come 'round to-night, just after milkin', and then you can
take her."

"I didn't think he was quite so mean," passed through Hiram Walton's
mind, and his lip curved slightly in scorn, but he knew that this
feeling must be concealed.

"Just as you say," he answered. "I'll come round tonight, or send
Harry."

"How old is Harry now?"

"About fourteen."

"He's got to be quite a sizable lad--ought to earn concid'able.
Is he industrious?"

"Yes, Harry is a good worker--always ready to lend a hand."

"That's good. Does he go to school?"

"Yes, he's been going to school all the term."

"Seems to me he's old enough to give up larnin' altogether. Don't
he know how to read and write and cipher?"

"Yes, he's about the best scholar in school."

"Then, neighbor Walton, take my advice and don't send him any
more. You need him at home, and he knows enough to get along in
the world."

"I want him to learn as much as he can. I'd like to send him to
school till he is sixteen."

"He's had as much schoolin' now as ever I had," said the squire,
"and I've got along pooty well. I've been seleckman, and school
committy, and filled about every town office, and I never wanted
no more schoolin'. My father took me away from school when I was
thirteen."

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