



Produced by Ernest Schaal, Beginners Projects and the
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OTHER BOOKS BY MR. HORNUNG

    THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN. $1.25.

    RAFFLES. MORE ADVENTURES OF THE
      AMATEUR CRACKSMAN. Illustrated by
      F. C. YOHN. $1.50.

    PECCAVI. A NOVEL. $1.50.

    THE SHADOW OF A MAN. $1.25.

    DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. A
      NOVEL. $1.25.

    SOME PERSONS UNKNOWN. $1.25.

    YOUNG BLOOD. $1.25.

    MY LORD DUKE. $1.25.

    THE ROGUE'S MARCH. A ROMANCE.
      $1.50.

    THE BOSS OF TAROOMBA. [_Ivory
      Series._] 16mo. $0.75.

    A BRIDE FROM THE BUSH. [_Ivory
      Series._] 16mo. $0.75.

    IRRALIE'S BUSHRANGER. A STORY
      OF AUSTRALIAN ADVENTURE. [_Ivory
      Series._] 16mo. $0.75.




                                AT LARGE




                                AT LARGE


                               _A NOVEL_

                                   BY
                             E. W. HORNUNG


                        CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
                     NEW YORK::::::::::::::::: 1902




                          COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

                         _All rights reserved_


                        PUBLISHED FEBRUARY, 1902


                             TROW DIRECTORY
                    PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
                                NEW YORK




                                CONTENTS


                                                             Page

        I. A Nucleus of Fortune                                 1

       II. Sundown                                             11

      III. After Four Years                                    20

       IV. How Dick Came Home                                  28

        V. The First Evening at Graysbrooke                    41

       VI. Sisyphus                                            53

      VII. South Kensington                                    64

     VIII. The Admirable Miles                                 72

       IX. A Dancing Lesson and its Consequences               86

        X. An Old Friend and an Old Memory                     98

       XI. Dressing, Dancing, Looking on                      109

      XII. "To-Morrow, and To-Morrow, and To-Morrow"          123

     XIII. In Bushey Park                                     132

      XIV. Quits                                              152

       XV. The Morning After                                  163

      XVI. Military Manoeuvres                                174

     XVII. "Miles's Beggars"                                  185

    XVIII. Alice Speaks for Herself                           196

      XIX. Conterminous Courses                               206

       XX. Strange Humility                                   216

      XXI. An Altered Man                                     227

     XXII. Extremities                                        234

    XXIII. The Effect of a Photograph                         244

     XXIV. The Effect of a Song                               256

      XXV. Melmerbridge Church                                271

     XXVI. At Bay                                             286

    XXVII. The Fatal Tress                                    296

   XXVIII. The Effort                                         307

     XXIX. Elizabeth Ryan                                     313

      XXX. Sweet Revenge                                      325

     XXXI. The Charity of Silence                             333

    XXXII. Suspense: Reaction                                 343

   XXXIII. How Dick Said Good-Bye                             353




                                AT LARGE




                                At Large

                                   I

                          A NUCLEUS OF FORTUNE


A hooded wagon was creeping across a depressing desert in the middle of
Australia; layers of boxes under the hood, and of brass-handled,
mahogany drawers below the boxes, revealed the licensed hawker of the
bush. Now, the hawker out there is a very extensive development of his
prototype here at home; he is Westbourne Grove on wheels, with the
prices of Piccadilly, W. But these particular providers were neither so
universal nor so exorbitant as the generality of their class. There were
but two of them; they drove but two horses; and sat shoulder to shoulder
on the box.

The afternoon was late; all day the horses had been crawling, for the
track was unusually heavy. There had been recent rains; red mud clogged
the wheels at every yard, and clung to them in sticky tires. Little
pools had formed all over the plain; and westward, on the off-side of
the wagon, these pools caught the glow of the setting sun, and filled
with flame. Far over the horses' ears a long low line of trees was
visible; otherwise the plain was unbroken; you might ride all day on
these plains and descry no other horse nor man.

The pair upon the box were partners. Their names were Flint and
Edmonstone. Flint was enjoying a senior partner's prerogative, and
lolling back wreathed in smoke. His thick bare arms were idly folded. He
was a stout, brown, bearded man, who at thirty looked many years older;
indolence, contentment, and goodwill were written upon his face.

The junior partner was driving, and taking some pains about it--keeping
clear of the deep ruts, and pushing the pace only where the track was
good. He looked twenty years Flint's junior, and was, in fact, just of
age. He was strongly built and five-feet-ten, with honest gray eyes,
fair hair, and an inelastic mouth.

Both of these men wore flannel shirts, buff cord trousers, gray felt
wideawakes; both were public-school men, drawn together in the first
instance by that mutually surprising fact, and for the rest as different
as friends could be. Flint had been ten years in the Colonies,
Edmonstone not quite ten weeks. Flint had tried everything, and failed;
Edmonstone had everything before him, and did not mean to fail. Flint
was experienced, Edmonstone sanguine; things surprised Edmonstone,
nothing surprised Flint. Edmonstone had dreams of the future, and golden
dreams; Flint troubled only about the present, and that very little. In
fine, while Edmonstone saw licensed hawking leading them both by a short
cut to fortune, and earnestly intended that it should, Flint said they
would be lucky if their second trip was as successful as their first,
now all but come to an end.

The shadow of horses and wagon wavered upon the undulating plain as
they drove. The shadows grew longer and longer; there was a noticeable
change in them whenever young Edmonstone bent forward to gaze at the sun
away to the right, and then across at the eastern sky already tinged
with purple; and that was every five minutes.

"It will be dark in less than an hour," the lad exclaimed at last, in
his quick, anxious way; "dark just as we reach the scrub; we shall have
no moon until eleven or so, and very likely not strike the river
to-night."

The sentences were punctuated with sharp cracks of the whip. An answer
came from Edmonstone's left, in the mild falsetto that contrasted so
queerly with the bodily bulk of Mr. John Flint, and startled all who
heard him speak for the first time.

"My good fellow, I implore you again to spare the horseflesh and the
whipcord--both important items--and take it easy like me."

"Jack," replied Edmonstone warmly, "you know well enough why I want to
get to the Murrumbidgee to-night. No? Well, at all events, you own that
we should lose no time about getting to some bank or other?"

"Yes, on the whole. But I don't see the good of hurrying on now to reach
the township at an unearthly hour, when all the time we might camp in
comfort anywhere here. To my mind, a few hours, or even a night or two,
more or less----"

"Are neither here nor there? Exactly!" broke in Edmonstone, with
increasing warmth. "Jack, Jack! the days those very words cost us! Add
them up--subtract them from the time we've been on the roads--and we'd
have been back a week ago at least. I shall have no peace of mind until
I step out of the bank, and that's the truth of it." As he spoke, the
fingers of Edmonstone's right hand rested for a moment, with a curious,
involuntary movement, upon his right breast.

"I can see that," returned Flint, serenely. "The burden of riches, you
see--and young blood! When you've been out here as long as I have,
you'll take things easier, my son."

"You don't understand my position," said Edmonstone. "You laugh when I
tell you I came out here to make money: all the same, I mean to do it. I
own I had rotten ideas about Australia--all new chums have. But if I
can't peg out my claim and pick up nuggets, I'm going to do the next
best thing. It may be hawking and it may not. I mean to see. But we must
give the thing a chance, and not run unnecessary risks with the gross
proceeds of our very first trip. A hundred and thirty pounds isn't a
fortune; but it may be the nucleus of one; and it's all we've got
between us in this world meanwhile."

"My dear old boy, I'm fully alive to it. I only don't see the point of
finishing the trip at a gallop."

"The point is that our little all is concealed about my person," said
Edmonstone, grimly.

"And my point is that it and we are absolutely safe. How many more times
am I to tell you so?" And there was a squeak of impatience in the absurd
falsetto voice, followed by clouds of smoke from the bearded lips.

Edmonstone drove some distance without a word.

"Yet only last week," he remarked at length, "a store was stuck up on
the Darling!"

"What of that?"

"The storekeeper was robbed of every cent he had."

"I know."

"Yet they shot him dead in the end."

"And they'll swing for it."

"Meanwhile they've shown clean heels, and nobody knows where they
are--or are not."

"Consequently you expect to find them waiting for us in the next clump,
eh?"

"No, I don't. I only deny that we are absolutely safe."

Flint knocked out his pipe with sudden energy.

"My dear boy," cried he, "have I or have I not been as many years out
here as you've been weeks? I tell you I was in the mounted police, down
in Vic, all through the Kelly business; joined in the hunt myself; and
back myself to know a real bushranger when I see him or read about him.
This fellow who has the cheek to call himself Sundown is not a
bushranger at all; he and his mates are mere robbers and murderers. Ned
Kelly didn't go shooting miserable storekeepers; and he was the last of
the bushrangers, and is likely to remain the last. Besides, these chaps
will streak up-country, not down; but, if it's any comfort to you, see
here," and Flint pocketed his pipe, made a long arm overhead and reached
a Colt's revolver from a hook just inside the hood of the wagon, "let
this little plaything reassure you. What, didn't you know I was a dead
shot with this? My dear chap, I wasn't in the mounted police for
nothing. Why, I could pick out your front teeth at thirty yards and
paint my name on your waistcoat at twenty!"

Flint stroked the glittering barrel caressingly, and restored the pistol
to its hook: there was a cartridge in every chamber.

The other said nothing for a time, but was more in earnest than ever
when he did speak.

"Jack," said he, "I can only tell you this: if we were to lose our money
straight away at the outset I should be a lost man. How could we go on
without it--hawking with an empty wagon? How could I push, push,
push--as I've got to--after losing all to start with? A hundred pounds!
It isn't much, but it is everything to me--everything. Let me only keep
it a bit and it shall grow under my eyes. Take it away from me and I am
done for--completely done for."

He forgot that he was using the first person singular instead of plural;
it had become natural to him to think out the business and its
possibilities in this way, and it was no less in Flint's nature to see
no selfishness in his friend's speech. Flint only said solemnly:

"You shouldn't think so much about money, old chap."

"Money and home!" exclaimed Dick Edmonstone in a low, excited tone.
"Home and money! It's almost all I do think about."

Jack Flint leaned forward, and narrowly scanned the face of his friend;
then lay back again, with a light laugh of forced cheerfulness.

"Why, Dick, you speak as though you had been exiled for years, and it's
not three months since you landed."

Dick started. It already seemed years to him.

"Besides," continued the elder man, "I protest against any man growing
morbid who can show a balance-sheet like ours. As to home-sickness, wait
until you have been out here ten years; wait until you have tried
digging, selecting, farming, droving; wait until you have worn a
trooper's uniform and a counter jumper's apron, and ridden the
boundaries at a pound a week, and tutored Young Australia for your
rations. When you have tried all these things--and done no good at any
of 'em, mark you--then, if you like, turn home-sick."

The other did not answer. Leaning forward, he whipped up the horses, and
gazed once more towards the setting sun. His companion could not see his
face; but trouble and anxiety were in that long, steady, westward gaze.
He was very young, this lad Edmonstone--young even for his years. Unlike
his mate, his thoughts were all of the past and of the future; both
presented happy pictures; so happy that his mind would fly from the one
to the other without touching the present. And so he thought now, gazing
westward, of home, and of something sweeter than home itself; and he
blended that which had gone before with that which was yet to come; and
so wonderful was the harmony between these two that to-day was entirely
forgotten. Then the sun swung half-way below the dark line of the
horizon; a golden pathway shone across the sandy track right to the
wheels of the wagon; the dark line of scrub, now close at hand, looked
shadowy and mysterious; the sunset colours declared themselves finally
in orange and pink and gray, before the spreading purple caught and
swallowed them. The dreamer's face grew indistinct, but his golden
dreams were more vivid than before.

A deadly stillness enveloped the plain, making all sounds staccato: the
rhythmical footfall of the horses, the hoarse notes of crows wheeling
through the twilight like uncanny heralds of night, the croaking of
crickets in the scrub ahead.

Dick was recalled to the antipodes by a mild query from his mate.

"Are you asleep, driver?"

"No."

"You haven't noticed any one ahead of us this afternoon on horseback?"

"No; why?"

"Because here are some one's tracks," said Flint, pointing to a fresh
horse-trail on the side of the road.

Edmonstone stretched across to look. It was difficult in the dusk to
distinguish the trail, which was the simple one of a horse walking.

"I saw no one," he said; "but during the last hour it would have been
impossible to see any one, as close to the scrub as we are now. Whoever
it is, he must have struck the track hereabouts somewhere, or we should
have seen his trail before sundown."

"Whoever it is," said Flint, "we shall see him in a minute. Don't you
hear him? He is still at a walk."

Edmonstone listened, and the measured beat of hoofs grew upon his ear;
another moment and a horseman's back was looming through the dusk--very
broad and round, with only the crown of a wideawake showing above the
shoulders. As the wagon drew abreast his horse was wheeled to one side,
and a hearty voice hailed the hawkers:

"Got a match, mateys? I've used my last, and I'm just weakening for a
smoke."

"Here's my box," said Dick, pulling up. "Take as many as you like."

And he dropped his match-box into a great fat hand with a wrist like a
ship's cable, and strong stumpy fingers: it was not returned until a
loaded pipe was satisfactorily alight; and as the tobacco glowed in the
bowl the man's face glowed in company. It was huge like himself, and
bearded to the eyes, which were singularly small and bright, and set
very close together.

"I don't like that face," said Dick when the fellow had thanked him with
redoubled heartiness, and ridden on.

"It looked good-natured."

"It was and it wasn't. I don't want to see it again; but I shall know it
if ever I do. I had as good a look at him as he had at us."

Flint made no reply; they entered the forest of low-sized malee and pine
in silence.

"Jack," gasped Edmonstone, very suddenly, after half-an-hour, "there's
some one galloping in the scrub somewhere--can't you hear?"

