The defendants had split themselves into definite factions. At one side of the court the nudists had huddled together in a tight little protective unit, while the thugs and their dolls had disdainfully withdrawn to the other side. Marc, still in a state of slumber, had been casually deposited in a chair, mid-distant between the two groups.
Briefly, the judge studied these separate crime camps and turned a disillusioned gaze toward Sergeant Feeney who had reluctantly accompanied him to the bench.
"Good grief, Feeney," he said, "do you mean to say you picked up this gang all in one place?"
"All in one place," Sergeant Feeney nodded wearily.
"Good Lord!"
"Definitely, your honor," Sergeant Feeney agreed. "The ones without any clothes claim they were havin' a picnic."
"I'll just bet they were," the judge said. "Though I shouldn't think they'd care to be so frank about it." He sighed tremulously. "And the others? I see many familiar and loathsome faces there."
"They explained that they were botany students out for a field day. They're still quite drunk, your honor."
"Isn't that Hotstuff Harold there in the middle?"
"Yes, your honor," Sergeant Feeney said thinly, "he insists he's the head of the class."