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."