Chaplin, clutching his bowler hat, stands perplexed before a mirror. "What is this contraption reflecting my messy hair?" he seems to ask, while the mirror's answer remains an enigmatic silence.
An unintended tango unfolds as Buster Keaton's hat is swept by the wind, dancing across the street. Outside interference, a nemesis of the silent protagonist, yet always a willing participant.
The scene: a bustling city street. A sign declares "No Parking." Harpo Marx, amidst his horn serenade, finds this proclamation most insistent, immediately pulling out a parking ticket book of his own.
As the train whistles, our heroine, clutching her pearls, takes a dramatic stance upon the railroad tracks. Fear? Nay, curiosity is her partner in this ballet of the improbable.