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Guy Newell Boothby was born in Adelaide, South Australia, the son of Thomas Wilde Boothby, a Member of the South Australian House of Assembly. At six years of age he travelled with his mother to England and was educated at Lord Weymouth's Grammar School, Salisbury and at Christ's Hospital, London between 1874 and 1883.When his education was over he returned to Australia where he eventually became secretary to the Mayor of Adelaide, Lewis Cohen. He was dissatisfied with his prospects in Adelaide and consequently he moved to Brisbane where he hoped his prospects would be better.In the meantime he wrote a series of comic operas and plays, all of which were relatively unsuccessful.He was of a roving disposition and at age 24 he travelled across Australia from north to south and later he travelled extensively in the East.By 1894 he had married Rose Alice Bristowe and he and his wife moved to England in that year, which was notable for the publication of his first book, 'On the Wallaby, or, Through the East and Across Australia', an account of his and his brother's travels in Australia.He was given advice and encouragement in his writing by none other than Rudyard Kipling and the year 1895 saw the publication of three novels, the most significant of which was 'A Bid for Fortune: or, Dr Nikola's Vendetta'. This introduced probably his best known character, Dr Nikola, a ruthless, unscrupulous figure, with his ubiquitous large cat, who was to feature in five of his novels over the ensuing years. The book was an instant success and brought him a certain amount of fame. Dr Nikola had first appeared in serial form in the Windosr Magazine.Over the next 10 years he was to write another 50 books and a further five were published posthumously, the last of which was 'In the Power of the Sultan' (1908). He was so prodigious that the story circulated that he spoke his tales into a phonograph, from which they were later transcribed by secretaries.He is perhaps remembered also for introducing one of the early gentlemen crooks of literature when he featured Simon Carne in 'A Prince of Swindlers' in 1897. Carne had originally appeared in Pearson's Magazine and as a gentleman crook he pre-dated another of his kind in A J Raffles by two years.Boothby's novels were often set in Australia (not surprisingly) and were classed as 'fast-paced thrillers' although some felt that although exciting in plot they were 'hastily and carelessly written'. In addition they were said to have been enjoyed by those who 'care for frank sensationalism carried to its furtherest limits'. Despite these comments his books were extremely popular and made him one of the most successful novelists of his day. Boothby, who was also a successful breeder of prize dogs, died suddenly of pneumonia at his home, Winsley Lodge, Watkin Road, Bournemouth in 1905. He left a widow and three children.

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It was nearly nightfall when that melancholy little party made their appearance at the head station. Dick, with great foresight, had sent the ration cart out some miles to meet them, so that my mother was spared the pain of seeing the body of her husband brought in upon his horse. Rough and rude as he was, Dick was a thoughtful fellow, and I firmly believe he would have gone through fire and water to serve my mother, for whom he had a boundless admiration.IF any man had told me a year ago that I should start out to write a book, I give you my word I should not have believed him. It would have been the very last job I should have thought of undertaking. Somehow I've never been much of a fist with the pen. The branding iron and stockwhip have always been more in my line, and the saddle a much more familiar seat than the author's chair. However, fate is always at hand to arrange matters for us, whether we like it or not, and so it comes about that I find myself at this present moment seated at my table— pen in hand, with a small mountain of virgin foolscap in front of me, waiting to be covered with my sprawling penmanship.

Excerpt from The Race of LifeGeorgie, boy, Dick began, as he got out of his saddle and threw his reins on the ground, where's your mother Hurry up and tell me, for I've got something to say to her.She's in the house, I answered, and asked him to put me up in the saddle. He paid no attention to me, however, but was making for the house door when my mother made her appearance on the verandah. Little chap though I was, I can well recall the look on her face as her eyes fell upon him She became deadly pale, and for a moment neither of them Spoke, but stood looking at each other for all the world as if they were struck dumb. My mother was the first to speak.What has happened she asked, and her voice seemed to come from deep down in her throat, while her hands were holding tight on to the rail before her as if to prevent herself from falling. I can see there is something wrong, Mr. Benne.'About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

It was nearly nightfall when that melancholy little party made their appearance at the head station. Dick, with great foresight, had sent the ration cart out some miles to meet them, so that my mother was spared the pain of seeing the body of her husband brought in upon his horse. Rough and rude as he was, Dick was a thoughtful fellow, and I firmly believe he would have gone through fire and water to serve my mother, for whom he had a boundless admiration.IF any man had told me a year ago that I should start out to write a book, I give you my word I should not have believed him. It would have been the very last job I should have thought of undertaking. Somehow I've never been much of a fist with the pen. The branding iron and stockwhip have always been more in my line, and the saddle a much more familiar seat than the author's chair. However, fate is always at hand to arrange matters for us, whether we like it or not, and so it comes about that I find myself at this present moment seated at my table— pen in hand, with a small mountain of virgin foolscap in front of me, waiting to be covered with my sprawling penmanship.

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It was nearly nightfall when that melancholy little party made their appearance at the head station. Dick, with great foresight, had sent the ration cart out some miles to meet them, so that my mother was spared the pain of seeing the body of her husband brought in upon his horse. Rough and rude as he was, Dick was a thoughtful fellow, and I firmly believe he would have gone through fire and water to serve my mother, for whom he had a boundless admiration.

Excerpt from The Race of LifeGeorgie, boy, Dick began, as he got out of his saddle and threw his reins on the ground, where's your mother Hurry up and tell me, for I've got something to say to her.She's in the house, I answered, and asked him to put me up in the saddle. He paid no attention to me, however, but was making for the house door when my mother made her appearance on the verandah. Little chap though I was, I can well recall the look on her face as her eyes fell upon him She became deadly pale, and for a moment neither of them Spoke, but stood looking at each other for all the world as if they were struck dumb. My mother was the first to speak.What has happened she asked, and her voice seemed to come from deep down in her throat, while her hands were holding tight on to the rail before her as if to prevent herself from falling. I can see there is something wrong, Mr. Benne.'About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

Guy Newell Boothby (13 October 1867 – 26 February 1905) was a prolific Australian novelist and writer, noted for sensational fiction in variety magazines around the end of the nineteenth century. He lived mainly in England. He is best known for such works as the Dr Nikola series, about an occultist criminal mastermind who is a Victorian forerunner to Fu Manchu, and Pharos, the Egyptian, a tale of Gothic Egypt, mummies' curses and supernatural revenge. Rudyard Kipling was his friend and mentor, and his books were remembered with affection by George Orwell. Originally published as a dime novel in 1906, "The Race of Life" is a rare melodrama of the era.

It was nearly nightfall when that melancholy little party made their appearance at the head station. Dick, with great foresight, had sent the ration cart out some miles to meet them, so that my mother was spared the pain of seeing the body of her husband brought in upon his horse. Rough and rude as he was, Dick was a thoughtful fellow, and I firmly believe he would have gone through fire and water to serve my mother, for whom he had a boundless admiration.IF any man had told me a year ago that I should start out to write a book, I give you my word I should not have believed him. It would have been the very last job I should have thought of undertaking. Somehow I've never been much of a fist with the pen. The branding iron and stockwhip have always been more in my line, and the saddle a much more familiar seat than the author's chair. However, fate is always at hand to arrange matters for us, whether we like it or not, and so it comes about that I find myself at this present moment seated at my table— pen in hand, with a small mountain of virgin foolscap in front of me, waiting to be covered with my sprawling penmanship.