“That’s him!” This time the cry came from many places. Nonetheless, the person leaving the train was only mournful Joe Nailer, in his only good suit, who waved glumly, as if crowds greeted him every day of his life.

Whenever there was motion inside the train, ripples went through the crowds on the platform, and Rebecca was jostled, which required her to give narrow looks to many of her neighbors. A conductor in a sharp black cap yelled at her prince, who snapped to attention as no prince ever would.

From here, it was a small leap for her to suspect that Charlie Chaplin wasn’t really on the train.

When the porter opened the baggage compartment, a half dozen people fell over, trying to see inside, as if Chaplin—of course!—were traveling under the train like a railway rat, perhaps to surprise them in costume.

“Folks! Folks, stand back from the train!” This was obeyed easily enough—they had to give him some room, that was understandable. Still, it took some time, and the conductor continued, “The train cannot leave the station until there is room, so please stand back.”

The crowd did not stand back: they were here to see Chaplin, who was here to see them.

“Where’s Charlie?” a girlish voice cried. It was Rebecca Golod. The question took seed. “Where’s Charlie?” It was an easy name to join in on, two syllables, and it seemed so friendly at first, “Char-lie, Char-lie, Char-lie.”

The conductor consulted with the engineer, and two redcaps stepped up to see what was the matter. Rebecca noticed her young man join them. Within moments, the uniformed men had finally found a use for their imperious-looking college-educated charge, Hugo Black: it was his job to disperse the crowd.

This Hugo took to with vigor, fluttering the backs of his hands at the crowd as if shooing an insistent hobo’s dog away from a freshly glazed ham. The chant of “Char-lie, Char-lie, Char-lie” went darker.

The engineer blew the steam whistle, readying the train to go. Farmhands lifted their friends onto their shoulders, and they beat against the train, drumming their palms on the sheet metal in an apoplectic dissonance that caused Hugo to wince. Bravely, he began to lecture from the iron steps of the passenger car, adapting freely from a Ladies’ Home Journal essay he’d read by Mrs. Alfred Astor about how easily sidewalk etiquette was achieved on Park Avenue, and he explained into the din how those simple lessons of common courtesy dictated that the crowd should disperse. Remembering the impact of the word, he added, “Please!”

He saw just one person looking his way: a little girl. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, and he smiled. Humbly, he thought. Her own eyebrows went south, eyes narrowing as if squeezing the last of daylight from them.