Which made Barnes speak up in Lee’s defense. It began automatically, because the idea that he might sign up a man whose father had been killed by the Kaiser, who had foiled a jewel robbery, whose mother had come to see him off (this part was difficult, but promising), was like being dealt a royal flush. Further, he noticed how Lee resembled Wallace Reid, which was no tragedy. Barnes spoke passionately for over a minute, with the conviction of a man who knows he is entirely wrong—like a movie producer, in other words. It was an elliptical track, only within speaking distance of the truth toward its abrupt end: “… and perhaps none of this matters, but the country seems to think it matters, so who are we to argue with their will?”

He would have had more to say but for a final interruption. From the entrance came a rush of blue and brass, a mass of motion, arms holding batons, whistles held to pursed lips, something fanning out among the orchestra, going from blackness and into a glowing brilliance as the lighting crew moved their spots the better to illuminate them: the police had arrived.

“Leland Wheeler, aka Leland Duncan, aka Leland Reid—you’re under arrest.”

Before he went onstage, Chaplin removed his rings and handed them to his assistant. He boxed and dodged, then cracked his knuckles, removed his hat, touched carefully to make sure his every hair was in place, then replaced his hat at a slight angle. He walked up the steps as slowly as a gunfighter. He had with him a bullhorn.

Behind him was the odd, deep barrel of water over which the restless wind played and made temporary waves that sloshed against its wooden sides. Before him, the crowd.

“Ladies and gentleman of San Francisco,” he said, into the bullhorn, “I’m Charlie Chaplin.” To which, again, the city responded with great acclaim. “You all know that we’re going to France and giving that old devil the Kaiser what-for,” he said. “With every citizen doing his duty, well, we can each make every dollar work for the betterment of the world. We are all here today because the mere act of being here is equitable with the best of all citizenship.” This hadn’t come out as he intended. “A man can enlist, and those who do not enlist can come forth with portions of their wages and support the man who has enlisted.” Chaplin swallowed. “If we make no further impact today than to convince you of the importance of our cause”—he hesitated—“then our job is not even half done. For our men overseas.” He changed course. “Let us say that you grow potatoes. If you grow several more potatoes than you are used to, then, by all means”—he forced his voice to a shout, and hit his fist into his palm—“donate the extra potatoes!”