Sir Humphrey leans forward and squints at the ribbon with the earnest intensity of a man who has decided that inspecting ribbons is a chivalric activity. The goat watches. Reginald watches. Even Goodwife Thripp, who has not looked up from her knitting since roughly the fourteenth century, appears to watch from the periphery of her magnificently unimpressed gaze. Humphrey turns the ribbon over. On the back, in print so small it should not legally exist, is a committee notice: EXCELLENCE TO BE CONFIRMED UPON FORMAL PRESENTATION OF THE JUDGE'S HAT BY INCUMBENT GOAT TO APPROPRIATE RECIPIENT. SEE ATTACHED PROTOCOL. PROTOCOL NOT ATTACHED. Below this, in slightly larger writing, someone has added in pencil: *the goat knows.* Humphrey straightens up. He looks at the goat. The goat looks at him. The hat shifts fractionally — in the manner of a crown awaiting a head.