Henry J. Kostkos, who permits his charming wife to okay his stories, and if the yarn is mediocre, it's "Quick, Henry, the Flit."
Frank R. Paul, who, when asked to be interviewed, modestly answered: "There's not much about me to interview."
Conrad H. Ruppert, whose favorite expression, "Shut up, Weisinger," became a threat to have my scalp when I promised to mention him here. And he claims he isn't modest. Goodbye scalp, maybe I can do without it.
Phantom Lights
by August W. Derleth
Of the four men sitting in the captain's cabin on the S. S. Maine, three were listening to Captain Henderson, who was talking of storms in general, an apt topic, since the Maine had been driven head on into a raging tropical gale, and was at the moment making very little headway. The four of them, including the captain himself, were somewhat bored, though none of them showed it. Wembler, the business man, had begun to toy with his spectacles, taking them off, folding them, and putting them back on. Allison, the tall, dark man who was ostensibly a writer, occasionally whispered in an undertone to his companion, whose name had been given as Talbot.
It was Wembler who broke suddenly into the captain's monologue, "Have we stopped? Doesn't seem as if we were moving at all."
The captain shook his head. "No, we've been going very slowly on account of the gale." Then he stopped talking abruptly. "We have stopped," he said, and got up.
At the same moment, a sharp rap on the cabin door brought the other three men to attention. The Captain shouted "Come!"