And in his hand he held a half dozen or more of those cheap, lurid stories he had always despised; they must let the public see their faces in these impossible, illogical situations, or they must go back and call Luck Lindsay names to salve their disappointment.
The dried little man--whose name was Dave Wiswell--came walking curiously up the fresh-made "street," his sharp eyes taking in the falsity of the whole row of shack-houses that had no backs; bald behind as board fences, save where two-by-fours braced them from falling.

He saw the group standing before a wall that purported to be the front of a bank (which would be robbed with much bloodshed in the second scenario) and he hurried a little.

Luck scowled at him preoccupiedly, nodded a good morning, and turned abruptly to the others.
"Listen.

If you boys are game for this melodrama, I'd like to use you, all right.

You'll get experience in the business, anyway, so maybe it won't do you any harm.