Sir Humphrey canters onto the tournament field at a purposeful trot, lance leveled at an angle he privately considers magnificent. The field is, he notices after a beat, somewhat dismantled. The jousting lists — the wooden barriers that define a proper lane — are currently being loaded onto a cart by a man who appears very committed to supper. A herald in a wilted tabard looks up from parchment he has been failing to stuff into a satchel. "The jousting concluded at half-two," the herald says, in the tone of a man rehearsing for a grievance. "There was a winner. There were flowers. You missed all of it." Humphrey surveys the disassembled lane. The departing cart. The forty-three remaining spectators, who have acquired the alert interest of people who've already had their entertainment and may now be getting more. "I am," Sir Humphrey announces, "prepared to joust."