Humphrey dismounts with ceremonial gravity, approaches the goat at a careful angle, and crouches to eye level. "Now then," he says, in the tone one uses for difficult relatives or very important letters. "I believe we both know what ought to happen next." The goat regards him. It has been wearing an official hat since noon and has no particular opinions about changing this. Humphrey produces, from somewhere in his saddlebag, a biscuit — the sort that has been in a saddlebag long enough to have opinions of its own — and proffers it with diplomatic ceremony. "A trade," he proposes. "The deed. For the biscuit." "There's a form for that," says Reginald, scurrying forward. The goat eats the biscuit. Then, with what can only be called administrative cooperation, it produces from somewhere internal a small, damp, roughly parchment-shaped object and deposits it on the grass. Everyone regards it. "Is that—" Humphrey begins. "Mostly," says Goodwife Thripp.