Sir Humphrey wheels his horse and rides purposefully in the direction of pasties, which is toward the village. The question of where to obtain one has not been fully considered; he resolves it, as he resolves most logistical difficulties, by assuming one will present itself. One does — a small boy near the gate, mid-bite, surrenders his supper after a brief exchange involving Humphrey's most official voice and a halfpenny from his gauntlet. Humphrey arrives at a tent behind the lower mill, pasty held aloft like a flaky diplomatic missive. Inside, Sir Oswald Pell — tournament winner, recently garlanded — is a compact, surprisingly short man removing his gauntlets with the satisfied air of someone who has already forgotten there were runners-up. He looks at Humphrey. He looks at the pasty. "I demand satisfaction," Sir Humphrey announces. "Also, this is for you." Sir Oswald chews slowly and says nothing.