Sir Humphrey peers at the roll of very small official print. He peers harder. He turns it sideways. He turns it back. 'Small print,' he announces, with the calm authority of a man who has never read small print in his life and does not propose to begin, 'is for people who have run out of large-print arguments.' He sets it down with tremendous finality. 'I wish to speak to the marshal.' Reginald's expression undergoes several small, careful adjustments. 'The marshal,' he says, 'is currently adjudicating.' 'Then fetch him.' A pause. Reginald gestures — the gesture of a man indicating something he cannot change and has long since stopped trying to explain — toward the far end of the field, where a figure stands with considerable official gravity beneath a large red-and-gold hat, slightly askew. The figure is a goat. She is eating what appears to have once been a programme. She does not look up. She does not need to. She has the hat. Goodwife Thripp's needles pause for the first time all afternoon. 'Right,' says Sir Humphrey, squaring his pauldrons with great purpose. 'I challenge her to a duel.'