One night I was waiting at a cold, windy corner on Fifth Avenue for a bus. None came. A green Packard limousine whirled by. The chauffeur waved and pointed up the Avenue. In a flash I thought, now if I really were a factory girl I'd surely jump at a chance to ride in that green Packard. Up half a block I ran, and climbed in the front seat, as was expected of me. He was a very nice chauffeur. His mistress, “the old lady,” was at a party and he was killing time till 11.30. Would I like to ride till then? No, I wanted to get home—had to be up too early for joy riding. Why so early? The factory. And before I realized it there I sat, the factory girl. Immediately he asked me to dinner any night I said. Now I really thought it would be worth doing; no one else I knew had been out to dine with a chauffeur. Where would he take me? What would he talk about? But my nerve failed me. No, I didn't think I'd go. I fussed about for some excuse. I was sort of new in New York—out West, it was different. There you could pick up with anybody, go any place. “Good Gawd! girl,” said the chauffeur, earnestly, “don't try that in New York; you'll get in awful trouble!” All through Central Park he gave me advice about New York and the pitfalls it contained for a Westerner. He'd be very careful about me if I'd go out with him, any place I said, and he'd get me home early as I said. But I didn't say. I'd have to think it over. He could telephone to me. No, he couldn't. The lady I lived with was very particular. Well, anyhow, stormy days he'd see to it he'd be down by the factory and bring me home. Would I be dressed just the way I was then? Just the way—green tam and all. The next day while I thumped out lamp parts I tried to screw my courage up to go out with that chauffeur. Finally I decided to put it up to the girls. I meandered back to the wash room. There on the old stairs sat Irish Minnie and Annie, fat and ultradignified. They were discussing who the father of the child really was. I breezed in casually. “Vamped a chauffeur last night.” “Go-an.” “Sure. He asked me to ride home with him an' I did.” “Got in the machine with him?” “Sure!” “You _fool_! You young _fool_!” Goodness! I was unprepared for such comment. “What did he do to ya?” “Nothin'. An' he wants me to go to dinner with him. What'll I say?” Both pondered. “Sure,” said Minnie, “I b'lieve in a girl gettin' all that's comin' to her, but all I want to tell ya is, chauffeurs are a bad lot—the worst, I tell ya.” “You said it!” nodded fat Annie, as if years of harrowing experience lay behind her. “He was all right to ya the first time so as to lure you out the next.” “But,” says Minnie, “if ya go to dinner with him, don't you go near his machine. Steer clear of machines. Eat all ya can off him, but don't do no ridin'.”