Mildred asked if he was serious, and when it became apparent he was, she looked at the lights coming from the house, worried about being seen. “Okay,” she finally said. She put her towel to the ground.

She walked ten paces away and turned, but Chaplin halted her. “No, I’ll announce you. Here we go. ‘Now, for your pleasure, Contestant Number One, Mildred—’”

“Harris!”

“‘Mildred Harris, star of Intolerance and the Oz films, as the wicked slacker Charlie Chaplin.’ Go!”

She walked toward him with her toes turned out, twirling an imaginary cane, and bothering her upper lip as if it itched. She raised her red swim cap and let it snap back into place. “Now, wait, here, wait, wait,” she said. She raced away. When she’d achieved the necessary distance, she called to him, “The cops are after me now.”

“All right.”

“There’s a corner. Oh, we’ll pretend this tree is a corner.” She hustled toward him, arms pumping well out of proportion, then, hopping on one foot the requisite three times, rounded the corner of the tree. She bowed.

He applauded for her. “Very good. Nicely done on sand. Well worth fourth place. Now I’ll do Chaplin.”

“You do a Charlie Chaplin impersonation?”

“I do an impersonation of a Charlie Chaplin impersonator.” He warmed up: shaking out his shoulders, three steps with the toes-out walk, the wriggle of the mustache, the pivot, and three steps the other way, the imaginary cane, whose tip poked him in the eye. Then he ran in place, and performed the turn around the corner, but all the time ruining it with his facial expression, a fearful grimace, eyes darting and mouth moving in silent calculation. He bumped into someone on his left, tipped his hat to him, and, while bowing, accidentally bumped into someone on his right, requiring him to turn and give a second bow, which caused yet another bump and apology, until he was caught in a thicket of anxious attempts to set things right.

Then he clutched at his heart, seized up, and fell over, dead. His legs kicked.

Mildred applauded for him, and helped him back up. He had just ruined his jacket in the sand, but he didn’t mind. She had an odd laugh, as if many separate, distinct, funny thoughts came to her while she sized up the situation, with several seconds’ space in between them.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you read the funnies?”

“No.”

“Do you read Krazy Kat?”

“No, I don’t. Why?”