"Quite a haul," the judge said. "I only wish they'd haul them somewhere else. What about that tall fellow there who seems to be asleep? Is he the one who was turned in earlier on the morals charge?"
"Yes, your honor. There's nothin' rightly wrong with him, accordin' to the doctor. Either he's shammin' or he's been takin' dope."
"A nasty business, Feeney," the judge commented sourly. He glanced around the room as though hoping to find some unexpected avenue of escape, then shrugged. "I suppose I might as well plunge in." Picking up the gavel, he banged it heavily on the bench. The defendants and the spectators looked up apprehensively.
"The court will come to order!" the judge announced, a severe look coming into his dark eyes. "It had darned well better, anyway." He fixed the nudists with a steely glance. "Is there a spokesman for this shameless group over here?"
The skinny man edged forward, clutching his badly drooping leaves. He flushed embarrassedly.
"I suppose I am, your honor," he said weakly.
The judge eyed him without pleasure. "Why are you crouched down like that? Got a bellyache?"
"No, sir," the skinny man said. "It's just that I can't stand up—the way my leaves are. It wouldn't look right."
"It doesn't look right now," the judge said tersely. "It looks perfectly dreadful."
The skinny man flushed a still deeper shade of red and agitated his leaves. "I'm sorry, your honor."