Roberts drew the customary black cigar from his waistcoat pocket and clipped the end methodically. As he did so, apparently by chance, his glance swept the mantel above the grate, and, returning, took in the testimony of the desk with its unopened text-books and pile of scattered manuscript. Equally without haste he lit a match and puffed until the weed was well aglow. "Any assistance a friend can give?" he proffered directly. "We all get tangled at times, I guess. At least every one I know does." Armstrong's gaze left the fire and fastened on his companion peculiarly. "Do you yourself?" he asked bluntly. "Often." "That's news. I fancied you were immune. What, if I may ask, do you do at such times to effect your release?" "Go to bed, ordinarily, and sleep while the mud is drying up. There's usually a big improvement by morning." "And when there isn't--" Roberts smiled, the tight-jawed smile of a fighter. "It's a case of pull, then; a pull as though Satan himself were just behind and in hot pursuit. Things are bound to give if one pulls hard enough." Armstrong's face returned to the grate. His slippered feet spread wider than before. "I'm not much good at pulling," he commented. Roberts sat a moment in silence. "I repeat, if I can be of any assistance--" he commented. "No butting in, you understand." "Yes, I understand, and thank you sincerely. I doubt if you can help any though--if any one can. It's the old complaint mostly." "Publishers who fail to appreciate, I gather." "Partly." "And what more, may I ask?" Armstrong stretched back listlessly, his eyes half closed.