Sir Humphrey rides to the far end of what used to be the jousting lane and turns his horse to face the field with an air of total conviction. This is the correct thing to do. One simply waits at the end. His opponent will materialise. They always do. The man loading the cart sets down a plank and watches. The herald watches, in the manner one watches a man walking toward a wall — with helpless professional interest. The forty-three spectators, who had been leaving in ones and twos, stop leaving. Goodwife Thripp adds several stitches without looking up. A minute passes. Then another. Then, from the far end of the field — which is now, technically, the near end, since Humphrey has ridden to it — the tournament goat ambles purposefully onto the pitch. The official judge's hat is slightly askew. It stops directly opposite Sir Humphrey and stands with the calm authority of something that has nowhere else to be. Humphrey raises his lance. "Ah," he says. "There we are."