Some Say Home Is Where the Heart Is

Ursula caught them, from across the street, making their way towards the church out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't tell much about them, except that they were apparently homeless and recognized that she and Elsie were quite mobilized in the opposite economic direction. Her mind procured a dozen good reasons to hurry her friend back into the church -- many involving stories spun by her mother as to why she should never release her hand when strolling up 5th Avenue: "you could be kidnapped by Gypsies or street people, and taken far away and kept away from your father and I, and never see us again." Cautiously, she touched Elsie's arm.

"Let's go back inside. They'll be missing us."

Elsie laughed out loud, her eyes dancing -- and gleaming with the sight of something desireable. Ursula knew that look well, and was set ill at ease.

" 'Missing us'? Goodness, Ursula, if I hadn't the tact, I'd daresay you're a little self-important."

Ursula's eyes narrowed. "If you 'hadn't the tact'?"

Elsie smiled, dismissing her friend's insulted gaze with a breezy laugh. "Well it's not as if they're all in there counting the seconds since we left. It's Mr. Vanderbilt's funeral, after all."

"Elsie," Ursula whispered sternly, "There are a pair of street-types coming towards us, and I don't want to find out what they want. Please, let's go back into the church."

She watched the dazzling green eyes flick in the direction of the boys and return back to hers, split-second. "Yes, I noticed. Paper boys. Do the dangerous newsies frighten you?"

Ursula wanted to meet her companion's patronizing with an edged, witty remark, but she didn't have the kind of mind that "quipped" very well, under usual circumstances. She was too well-trained to keeping her comments civilly under her tongue. A minute ago, she had been wanting to prove to Elsie that she was not a "prude"; now she'd be happy to harbor the term in scarlet lettering across her forehead if it meant she would again be inside the church, left alone to her own thoughts as the mourners cried for themselves.

"Extry, extry! Read all about it! Cor-NE-li-US Gwynn Vander-BILT's funeral today!"

Ursula's head jerked to the mismatched pair on the street corner across the lawn of the church. She watched a middle-class woman cross the street and take a paper -- watched her hesitate, and give the second boy a penny as well. What a pair of cons. They paused a moment, then began for the girls again. Ursula shot Elsie another look, but she was digging out a penny from her purse. She looked up, brow furrowing irritably.

"Get a penny, Ursula!"

She shook her head. "What's that going to look like, Elsie? Walking out of the church in tears and walking back in reading the paper!"

Elsie rolled her eyes. "Keep it under your coat. Goodness."

"Afternoon, ladies."

The voice made Ursula jump, and she drew back a step, uncertain despite Elsie's ease and confidence. She wondered remotely what her mother would have done with her, if she had been born a rebellious type like Elsie. But she didn't have time to consider her mother's solution to the Elsies of society; she needed to be on alert, to keep her friend from doing anything that might endanger her later on.

"Wanna buy a pape? We got the World."

The boy who was talking was diminutive. Had he not been talking, Ursula would have immediately assumed him an immigrant. Most of the Europeans clogging the streets barely reached five foot; small, malnourished people with hardy hopes and dreams. This boy was small with deep, dark eyes and thick black hair, greased down to whatever exent it would be allowed to be greased. His skin was olive-colored, and Ursula decided he was Italian (that ought to make Elsie happy) -- or of Italian descent, because he had no trace of Old World brogue in his speech pattern. He was pure gritty, bad-grammared, cheap alleyway-New York. His fingers were stained with ink, but his teeth were clean, which surprised her when he grinned and unfolded a paper before them, showing off the headline.

The other boy was taller, leaner. He looked like an American to her -- as much as a street person could look like an American. He had light-colored hair that, she noticed, was also greased back -- perhaps to hide how much it was in need of cutting. He smiled a lot, trying to sell -- gain some affection so that, when his friend sold a paper, he might get a penny for his effort, as well. Wide, light brown eyes with a very un-Anglo nose in-between. He was silent. Ursula didn't like that. She couldn't tell what his part was in this scheme between he and his friend. Assuming there was a scheme. Which, she assumed, there had to be. These were street people, after all.

The quiet one was keeping his eyes on Elsie. Ursula liked that. Their gazes unnerved her. She wished Elsie would hand over her penny and leave.

"The World?" Elsie repeated quaintly."I think Mr. Pulitzer is in the church right now."

The talkative one snorted. "Nice 'a him to pay his respects."

Elsie laughed. "Now this is quite odd. Ursula, these two work for Mr. Pulitzer, and he's right inside those doors. It's almost ... a paradox, or something."

"It's not a paradox," Ursula corrected icily. Elsie shrugged good-naturedly, looking at the boys as she repeated:

" 'Or something.'"

The talkative one chuckled, his eyes fastened now on Elsie. His mind seemed to be working over the image of her in his mind. As if he knew something about her, but couldn't quite place it.

"Hey, if you don't mind my askin'," he started, oh-so-eloquently, "what's yah name?"

Elsie was loving this. "Ellen French. I go by Elsie."

Now those deep, dark eyes lit up and a genuine grin spread across his face. "Well I knew I'd seen ya! You was at that gatherin' down by the docks ... Talkin' to my buddy Jack, I remember. Hey, whaddya do?"

"Quite well," Elsie returned in a mocking of proper English. She smiled, content with her celebrity. "Oh, I remember you as well. Racetrack Higgins."

"That's the one," he said jovially.

Ursula could see this conversation was not going to end any time soon.

"You let me beat you in poker," Elsie continued, a sly glint in her eye. Her companion's own eyes widened horrifically.

"Elsie!" she hissed, jerking her head towards the door.

"Say," Racetrack continued, not even acknowledging Ursula's obvious desire to esape, "why didn't you bring this one with you?"

Now they were all laughing -- all except for Ursula. It took her a moment to realize the joke was about her. She glared at Elsie. The other two were below her concern.

"Isn't it obvious why not?" Elsie retorted, ignoring her friend's prodding. Racetrack shook his head, grinning.

"I don't know, Elsie -- I wouldn't mind seeing her around next time."

Ursula's blazing eyes turned daringly towards the laughing little paper boy, but he was hardly intimidated by her insulted glare. She figured he must recieve them all the time.

"I beg your pardon?"

Racetrack snorted. "She'd be a hoot."

That was about enough of this. Ursula took a firm hold on Elsie's arm. "We're going inside now. Get your paper and let's be on."

Now Elsie laughed, never caring whether she was inducing insult or not. That was Elsie. She never thought; she never considered anything. Even that glittering ring on her left hand was a decision made in a moment's time. Had Alfie been a ... for God's sakes, a newsie, she would've said yes. Her impulse was going to kill her, someday.

"If it upsets you so, go inside," Elsie dismissed, turning back to the street boy. "Now, I don't remember meeting this one."

She met the taller boy's eyes, and Racetrack straightened himself with a mocking of proper manners -- of Ursula's world.

"Ah, forgive me, Miss French. This here's Skittery. A good guy -- dumb as a post, and depressed over it, too."

Skittery (good Lord ...) smacked his friend on the arm and threatened him with a playful set of dukes that made Racetrack laugh out loud.

"Elsie," Ursula hissed.

"Jeeze," Racetrack murmured, "don't mean to take you's away from the fun ya're havin' at the funeral ..."

Elsie laughed; Ursula decided that she was acting like a common bar wench -- not that Ursula was particularly familiar with the way in which a common bar wench conducted herself.

"Yes," the blonde quieted herself. "Even so, we really should be going --"

"Do we get to know her name?"

The tall one (because Ursula refused to refer to anyone as "Skittery") was the one who asked, and she didn't even know why. Since they'd approached the pair, his eyes had been on Elsie, and with due reason. Elsie was the smiling, glittering, spotlight; Elsie was the one who was wanting to be within ten feet of them in the first place.

Elsie was prodding her friend with gleaming green eyes.

"Come now, Ursula, where are your manners?"

She hated how much the girl could sound like her mother without even trying.

"Ursula Wellington."

Racetrack laughed, and she hardly appreciated it.

"Gracious me," he commented, "if that was my name, I'd be uptight, too."