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Updated: May 8, 2025
He seemed to appeal particularly to Judge Hagenthorpe, but the old man had his chin lowered musingly to his cane, and would not look at him. "It's about what nobody talks of much," said Twelve. "It's about Henry Johnson." Trescott squared himself in his chair. "Yes?" he said. Having delivered himself of the title, Twelve seemed to become more easy.
Old Judge Denning Hagenthorpe, who lived nearly opposite the Trescotts, had thrown his door wide open to receive the afflicted family. When it was publicly learned that the doctor and his son and the negro were still alive, it required a specially detailed policeman to prevent people from scaling the front porch and interviewing these sorely wounded.
Late one evening Trescott, returning from a professional call, paused his buggy at the Hagenthorpe gate. He tied the mare to the old tin-covered post, and entered the house. Ultimately he appeared with a companion a man who walked slowly and carefully, as if he were learning. He was wrapped to the heels in an old-fashioned ulster. They entered the buggy and drove away.
"Who was here to-day, Gracie?" he asked. From his shoulder there came a mumble, "Mrs. Twelve." "Was she um," he said. "Why didn't Anna Hagenthorpe come over?" The mumble from his shoulder continued, "She wasn't well enough." Glancing down at the cups, Trescott mechanically counted them. There were fifteen of them. "There, there," he said. "Don't cry, Grace. Don't cry."
In the background of the group old Judge Hagenthorpe was thoughtfully smoothing the polished ivory head of his cane. Trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes from his shoulders. When he entered the house he went at once to the dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. Jimmie was there, reading painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and crocodiles.
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