Willie tremulously felt in his clothing, and did produce a dog-eared volume to somewhat that effect.  Tom Osby turned over a few of the pages thoughtfully, and then sat up with a happy smile.  “There ain’t no trouble about that letter now!” said he.

“What—­what—­what do you want?” asked Willie.  Then they told him.  Willie radiated happiness.  He sat down beside them, his hands trembling with joy and eagerness—­conspirator number three for the peace and dignity of Heart’s Desire.

“Go get some paper, Curly,” said Tom Osby, and Curly departed.  Willie remained wrapped in thought, his mind confused at this sudden opportunity.

“It’s all about Lancelot,” said he.

“What brand did Lancelot ride under?  Now, no foolin’, Willie.”

“Why—­why—­why,” said Willie, “Lancelot, he’s at a tournyment.  Now, he loves a beautiful queen.”

“Shore he does!  That goes.  What’s the queen’s name?”

“Her name—­her name—­her name’s Guinevere,” replied Willie.  “And the proud king, he brooks it ill.  The proud king’s name is Arthur.”

“Oh, no, it ain’t!” said Tom Osby.  “There ain’t no man who’s name is Arthur that has no scrap to him.  It ain’t Arthur that goes on no war-path.”

“Yes, he did,” insisted Willie.  “Lancelot gets herded out.  He gets shot up some at the tournyment, so he leaves the beautiful queen, and he rides off for the range all alone by himself.  He’s like a sheepherder.”

“Come on with the paper, Curly,” called Tom Osby.  “This feller’s thinker is workin’ fine.  Go on, Willie.”

“Now, Lancelot, he’s layin’ at the point of death, and he’s thinkin’ all the time of Guinevere.  I reckon he writes her a letter, and he says, says he, ‘Dear Lady, I send thee my undyin’ love,’ says he.  ’I kiss the picture which is a-layin’ on my breast,’ says he; ’and with my last breath,’ says he, ‘I shorely yearn for thee!’”

“Meanin’ Guinevere?”

“Shore!  Says Lancelot, ’Fair queen, thou didst me a injury onct; but couldst thou but come and stand at my bedside, I hadst new zeal in life,’ says he.”

“Meanin’ he’d get well?” asked Curly.  “That’s the same as Dan Anderson! This feller’s a peach!”

“Shut up!” admonished Tom Osby.  “Go on, Willie.”

“It’s always that-a-way,” said Willie.  Tears stood in his eyes.  He looked vaguely out over the blue hills which hedged in the enchanted valley of Heart’s Desire.  “It’s always that-a-way,” he repeated.  “Somehow, somewhere, there’s always a beautiful queen, for every fellow, just over the mountains.  It’s always that-a-way.”

Tom Osby reached out a hand and gently shook him.

“Set up, Willie,” said he.  “Come down now, till we get this business fixed.  Now, what happens after that?”

Willie winked his eyes and smiled amiably.  “The sick knight, he writes a missive to the beautiful queen,” he went on.  “He sets his signet ring on to the missive, and he hands it to his trusted henchman, and his trusted henchman flies to do his bidding.”