Humphrey turns from the goat — which has resumed its philosophical chewing — and retreats to Goodwife Thripp with the measured dignity of a man who has not just been ignored by livestock. "The goat," he says carefully. "What authority does it hold, exactly?" Thripp does not look up. "That would be the judge's hat." "Yes, I can see the hat." "Whoever holds the hat holds the judging authority." She turns a stitch. "It's in the Tournament Charter." Humphrey stares. "There is a charter." "Charter of Midden-on-Sogge, 1289. Very clear on the subject of hat-holders." She tilts her needles slightly. "The previous judge set it down to have a wee. Goat was there. There it is." A terrible comprehension settles over Humphrey's face. "So the goat is currently the official judge of this tournament." "Technically," says Thripp, "the goat is the only judge this tournament has left." The knitting needles click.