"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."