The herald stares at Sir Humphrey for a long, defeated moment, then opens his satchel, loses three sheets of parchment to the wind, and retrieves a damp scroll. "Challenging the winner," Reginald says, "requires the completion of Form Seven-C: Declaration of Retroactive Combative Intent. In triplicate. Two copies are in my satchel. The third is" — he pauses, watches a page drift toward a goat — "currently being assessed by the judge." The goat, wearing its enormous official hat at a philosophical tilt, chews with majestic indifference. The forty-three remaining spectators have not left. They have, if anything, moved closer. Goodwife Thripp has not looked up from her knitting, but her needles are clicking slightly faster — which those who know her recognize as the sound of anticipation. "The winner," Reginald adds, "has also left. He had a pasty to finish." Sir Humphrey remains entirely undeterred.