The two men were conducted into an inner room where a man sat at a desk. He was very dark, red-faced, and thin, with deep lines in his face, a tight shut, receding⁵ mouth, and black, burning eyes. He reminded Somers of the portraits of Abraham Lincoln, the same sunken cheeks and deep, cadaverous lines and big black eyes. But this man, Willie Struthers, lacked that look of humour and almost of sweetness that one can find in Abraham Lincoln’s portraits. Instead, he was suspicious, and seemed as if he were brooding an inner wrong.

 

He was a born Australian, had knocked about the continent, and spent many years on the goldfields. According to report, he was just comfortably well-off—not rich. He looked rather shabby, seedy; his clothes had that look as if he had just thrown them on his back, after picking them off the floor. Also one of his thin shoulders was noticeably higher than the other. But he was a distinct Australian type, thin, hollow-cheeked, with a brightish, brittle⁶, red skin on his face, and big, dark, incensed-looking eyes. He nodded to the two men as they entered, but did not speak nor rise from the desk.

 

“This is Mr Somers,” said Jaz. “You’ve read his book on democracy.”

 

“Yes, I’ve read it,” said Struthers. “Take a seat.”

 

He spoke⁷ with a pronounced Australian accent—a bad cockney. He stared at Somers for a few seconds, then looked away.

 

He asked the usual questions, how Richard liked Australia, how long he had been there, how long he thought of staying. The two didn’t get into any easy harmony.

 

Then he began to put a few shrewd questions concerning the Fascisti and Socialisti in Italy, the

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