The judge reared back. High-Pockets waited. "In my opinion," his honor began a little ambiguously, "a linotype operator is very near the bottom of the scale of humanity. There is only one person who stands beneath him. That is the poet." The judge's eyes turned full on High-Pockets, all seven gangling feet of him. "You," the judge said ominously, "are both." High-Pockets waited in dread. He had a premonition that this wasn't even going to be a nice jail sentence where he could meditate and refle