"A whole lot too fancy!" says Ma, very prompt. "And no daughter of mine, a decent, respectable girl, is going sailing off on no battleship with a lot of sailors--not to mention submarines; not if I know it!" says Ma. "So, Mary Gilligan, you may as well put that idea out of your head, let alone you ain't a stenographer and couldn't learn it in a month." "Well, Ma," I says, "maybe you're right; and I do get seasick awful quick. But--oh, Ma! I got to enlist some place. Can't you see the way I feel?" Ma could. "I know!" she says, very sympathetic. "I was the same when your pa missed both the third trapeze and the life net. I would of enlisted when he died if there had been a war. And, of course, you feel like Jim was dead. How about the Red Cross?" "Won't do for me," I says, prompt. "I don't see myself sitting around in no shop, with a dust cloth tied over my head, selling tickets. I got to do something active or I'll go bugs!" Then Ma had a real idea. "How about this here Woman's Automobile Service?" says she. "The one I read you the piece about? You're a woman and you got a auto." "Ma, you're a wonder!" I says. "Look up the address while I get my hat on! Tell Musette to call for the limousine; and watch me make a trial for my new job!" So they done like I asked, and I kissed Ma and Musette good-by; also the two fool dogs, for I had a sort of feeling like I was going into battle already. "When Jim calls up tell him it's no good--he can't see me," says I, the last thing. And then I set off in the limousine. Well, I'd put on a very simple imported model and a small hat, and only my diamond earrings, and a brooch Jim had give me, when we was first engaged, over my aching heart. I wanted, above all things, to look refined; for, even if the U. S. Army isn't always quite that, still, this was a ladies' branch of it. And you know what women can be--especially in organizations; though I admit I hadn't had much previous experience with them, except the White Kittens, which Ma insisted on me keeping up with and contributing to their annual ball, because of she having always belonged. And--believe you me--the scraps I seen at some of their Execution Committee meetings would make the Battle of the Marne look like a pinochle post-mortem! Well, as I was saying, I took no chances on appearances of refinement in this case, not knowing exactly what class of ladies would be running the Woman's Automobile Service. And, even when I got to their office, it took me several minutes before I got the right dope on them and their line--do you get me? In the first place, it wasn't at all like the White Kittens' Headquarters, in the Palatial Hotel ball-room. Instead, it was a shop on a swell side street, with two very plain capable-looking dark-green ambulances standing outside. My limousine had to stop next door on account of them.