Sir Humphrey wheels his horse with tremendous purpose and rides — or rather, plods, the horse having its own views on urgency — toward the officials' table, a folding trestle arrangement bearing a banner that once read TOURNAMENT OFFICIAL: ENQUIRE HERE and now reads, due to weather, TOURNAMEN FICI : EN IRE HERE. Behind it sits Reginald, the tournament herald, who is in the process of packing his satchel for the third and presumably final time. "I demand," announces Humphrey, drawing himself up in the saddle with great ceremony, "to be entered." Reginald looks up with the expression of a man who has already written the day off as a loss. He examines Humphrey. He examines the sundial. He examines Humphrey again. "The lists closed," he says, in a tone of careful bureaucratic sorrow, "at noon." "I am aware," says Humphrey, "of the general concept of noon." Reginald reaches into his satchel and produces a document. Then another. Then a third, which he didn't mean to produce. He squints at the first one.