Though he continued to produce until 1906, and wrote in all nearly twenty books including The Miner's Right (1890), and A Sydney-side Saxon (1891), it was Robbery Under Arms that established his reputation in the literary world, and by which he is still most widely known. It is a well-constructed novel with a definite plot and thoughtfully organised development.

Browne knew and believed in his adopted country. “Australia! birthplace of my soul, more loved than even my native land,” he said, “thee and thine I claim to know.” And in this romantic novel he embodied much of the bush life of the Australia of his time; he inspired faith and optimism in the country at a time when these were sorely needed even among Australians themselves. And though he loved and extolled superb and hazardous daring, he did not condone the wrong-doing of the bushranger, for he made his heroine say: “I wonder that any man should be content with a wicked life and a shameful death.”

W. A. MORRIS

CHAPTER I

My name's Dick Marston, Sydney-side native. I'm twenty-nine years old, six feet in my stocking soles, and thirteen stone weight. Pretty strong and active with it, so they say. I don't want to blow—not here, any road—but it takes a good man to put me on my back, or stand up to me with the gloves, or the naked mauleys. I can ride anything—anything that ever was lapped in horsehide—swim like a musk-duck, and track like a Myall blackfellow. Most things that a man can do I'm up to, and that's all about it. As I lift myself now I can feel the muscle swell on my arm like a cricket ball, in spite of the—well, in spite of everything.

The morning sun conies shining through the window bars; and ever since he was up have I been cursing the daylight, cursing myself, and them that brought me into the world. Did I curse mother, and the hour I was born into this miserable life?

Why should I curse the day? Why do I lie here, groaning; yes, crying like a child, and beating my head against the stone floor? I am not mad, though I am shut up in a cell. No. Better for me if I was. But it's all up now; there's no get away this time; and I, Dick Marston, as strong as a bullock, as active as a rock-wallaby, chockfull of life and spirits and health, have been tried for bush-ranging robbery under arms they call it—and though the blood runs through my veins like the water in the mountain creeks, and every bit of bone and sinew is as sound as the clay I was born, I must die on the gallows this day month.