Sir Humphrey digs in his heels. The horse — a beast of admirable constitution and questionable professional judgment — begins to canter. The forty-three spectators reverse direction entirely. Someone buys a pie. The charge builds. Lance leveled, cape streaming in the colour of old porridge, Humphrey closes on the goat at a pace best described as committed. The goat does not move. The goat's hat does not move. The goat watches with the patient expression of something that has judged many tournaments and found them broadly adequate. At approximately four feet of separation, the horse swerves. This is what horses do, given a choice between a goat wearing an official hat and the open field to the left. Sir Humphrey continues through the gap, lance extended hopefully, and exits what used to be the list at a speed that suggests he has not yet noticed. Reginald writes something in his ledger. The entry is two words and contains a question mark. Goodwife Thripp turns a heel.