Sir Humphrey wheels his horse toward the cart with the measured authority of a man who has never once wondered whether he has any. The cart driver — a broad, unhurried fellow who was, until sixty seconds ago, entirely at peace with his plans for supper — looks up with the patience of someone who has learned that nothing good ever starts with "you there." "You there," says Humphrey. "Unload those lists. We're having a joust." "I've just loaded 'em." "Then you've had excellent practice." "The vote was nineteen to eight," says Reginald, materialising at Humphrey's elbow with his satchel and his grievance. "Against." "The ayes had it." "Eight is the smaller number." "Marginally," Humphrey concedes. "Nevertheless." He gestures at the lists with the confidence of a man who considers arithmetic a rough guide. The cart driver looks at the lists. He looks at Sir Humphrey. He looks at the goat, which is maintaining the expression of a judicial observer awaiting developments. "Supper," the cart driver says quietly. "After the joust," says Sir Humphrey.