The goat does not require asking twice. In fact, the goat does not require asking once — it is already moving, the large red-and-gold hat tilting at an alarming angle as it canters toward the far end of what remains of the lane with a purposefulness that suggests it has been waiting for this moment its entire professional career. Sir Humphrey beams. The herald puts his face in his satchel. The crowd, who came for a tournament and are now watching a goat in a judicial hat attempt a tilt, edge forward with the uneasy enthusiasm of people who know this will become a story and cannot stop. Goodwife Thripp keeps knitting, though at a slightly increased pace. The goat wheels at the far end, snorts magnificently, and fixes Humphrey with the calm authority of a creature that has judged enough and found him acceptable. "Excellent," says Humphrey, brightening considerably. "We shall need an opponent."