Sir Humphrey, with the instincts of a man who has never questioned a social contract in his life, steps backward. The goat steps forward. Sir Humphrey steps backward again. The goat steps forward again. "It's leading you," Reginald observes, from a safe distance, pen scratching furiously. "I'm recording that it's leading you." "Excellent," says Sir Humphrey, who has decided that being led by an authoritative hat is essentially equivalent to following a senior noble. And so, with great dignity, Sir Humphrey Bumfrey — Knight of the Realm, Defender of the Somewhat Defensible — processes backward across the tournament field, led by a goat. The goat proceeds with the unhurried certainty of something that has somewhere to be. It does not look back. Authority rarely does. Goodwife Thripp watches. She has begun a third hat. The goat stops before the judging table: one rickety trestle, one overturned goblet, one abandoned ribbon reading SUPREME EXCELLENCE (PROVISIONAL). The goat regards the ribbon. Then it looks at Humphrey.