Sir Humphrey lowers his lance to what he considers the correct jousting angle — approximately forty-five degrees, or rather, whatever angle it happens to be — and digs his heels into his horse. The horse, a creature of profound good judgement, considers this for a moment before deciding that yes, fine, forward is technically a direction. "HAVE AT THEE!" Humphrey bellows, gathering speed across thirty feet of churned mud. The Goat does not flinch. The Goat does not step aside. The Goat looks up from the programme, regards the rapidly approaching knight with the mild curiosity of a creature deciding whether this is interesting, and takes a considered step to the left. Humphrey thunders past. The lance strikes nothing. The horse continues an additional twelve feet before stopping with the patient air of an animal that expected this outcome. The Goat resumes eating. Its hat remains on. Reginald writes something in his satchel. "That," announces Humphrey, wheeling about with great dignity, "was a warning pass."