"You," says Sir Humphrey, pointing with the lance-free hand at a man three rows back. "You raised your hand." The man — who had raised his hand with the specific intention of asking whether anyone had seen his dog — opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the hand in question, which has, in retrospect, betrayed him completely. "I was going to—" he begins. "Splendid," says Humphrey. "You're my second. And you'll count the passes." He turns back to the goat with the air of a man who has solved everything. Reginald writes something in the margin of the schedule — *man (volunteered, debatable)* — and Goodwife Thripp adds three stitches that feel somehow judicial. The man looks around at his fellow spectators for rescue. They are all studying the middle distance with sudden, intense interest. "How many passes?" the man asks, after a moment of quiet defeat. "Three," says Humphrey. "Or until someone wins." "Does the goat know that?" Everyone looks at the goat. The goat does not indicate one way or the other.