The studios were developing personalities—from the gluttonous Famous Players–Lasky–Paramount combine, which gobbled up rivals like capons, to the more sultry Fox, whose stars wore real silk, so they would know the difference when acting. Inceville had the best picnics, and Triangle the closest saloons, but associating with Bluebird or Jewel came with a sense of shame, living on land owned by the duke’s fourth son, the one whose parents were brother and sister.

So the neighbors around Sunset and De Longpre wondered what Chaplin’s kingdom would be like. There was much relief when the new Charles Chaplin Studios began to take shape, for they resembled a quaint, well-kept English village. Chaplin’s publicist, Carlyle Robinson, wrote up a handbill and paid boys to distribute it throughout the neighborhood. “Goodbye to the limp and sloppy canvas that flaps in the mildest breeze— the Chaplin Studios will have the best muslin diffusion systems in the world.” And “No saloon for the employees, but a tennis court and swimming pool, to promote healthful energies.”

The handbill announced an open house. Two thousand locals attended, signing the guest book with “Thank You” or “God Bless” or “You Are No Slacker.” Chaplin himself did not attend. Word circulated, though no one could say from whom, that he was shy, and by the end of the day, when everyone had taken a look around the stages, peered into the wardrobe rooms to see the hat, cane, and shoes, gotten to shake hands with Edna Purviance or Albert Austin, and had a lemonade and a sandwich, the whispers of “He’s shy, you know,” were answered with “I know that— everyone knows he’s shy.” As people left, they wrote in the ledger that they were proud to have Charlie Chaplin in town.

“We’re on his side,” an elderly woman said cheerfully, the last person to leave. “Let him know we don’t think he’s a slacker.” She had in hand that day’s newspaper. Twice a week, the front page of every local paper listed the names of men who had been called to register for service in the army but had not come forth. The column was headed with a neologism coined by the Committee for Public Information: “Slackers.”

Chaplin’s name had never actually appeared there. Then again, he hadn’t actually appeared simultaneously in over eight hundred different places across the country, either.

The moment the last person went home and the gate was locked for the night, Carlyle Robinson telephoned Chaplin, who, after consulting with him about how much the sandwiches and lemonade had cost (they had been donated by local businesses), told him he was brilliant. “I’m giving you a three-dollar raise. And excellent timing.”

Excellent timing, for the next day, as according to plan, the dogs began to arrive.