Humphrey dismounts with creak and ceremony, takes the sheaf of parchment, and reads. He reads for rather a long time. The goat watches him with the serenity of an animal that has never once concerned itself with property law. Reginald hovers, producing supplementary forms from his satchel the way a conjuror produces handkerchiefs — without apparent bottom. "This one," says Humphrey, stabbing a gauntleted finger at the thirty-eighth subsection of Article Nine. "Voluntary Assumption. 'No hat registered with the County shall be held in County custody if it hath been taken up, of its own accord, by a free party acting in a spirit of office.'" He looks up. "The goat took the hat voluntarily. In a spirit of office." "That makes the goat a county official," says Reginald, going slightly grey. "Does it," says Goodwife Thripp. It is not a question. "Technically," says Reginald, with the expression of a man watching a runaway cart, "it may make the goat the acting judge of the tournament." The goat takes one deliberate step forward and stands very still. It is, by some margin, the most authoritative presence on the field.