They were babbling when he walked in, but the babbling stopped quickly. The chairman said, "Are we ready, Mr. Ronar?"
"All ready."
The three cakes were placed before him. Slowly he took a mouthful of Number 17. Slowly he chewed it and swallowed it. Number 43 followed, then Number 64.
After the third mouthful, he stood lost in thought. One was practically as good as another. He could still choose which he pleased.
The assemblage had quieted down. Only the people most concerned whispered nervously.
Mrs. Cabanis, to her psychologist husband: "If I don't win, it'll be your fault. I'll pay you back for this."
The good doctor's fault? Yes, you could figure it that way if you wanted to. If not for Dr. Cabanis, Ronar wouldn't be the judge. If Ronar weren't the judge, Mrs. C. would win, she thought. Hence it was all her husband's fault. Q.E.D.
The male baker to his wife: "If he gives the prize to me, I'll brain him. I should never have entered this."
"It's too late to worry now."