Tim Kelly was walking therough a dim passageway when someone spoke to him.
"Good evenin', Kelly," said the muffled figure. "Don't ye be knowin' your old
friend Grogan any more?"
Kelly stared at Grogan, whose face was a patchwork of bandages and adhesive
plaster. One arm was in a sling and he was leaning on a crutch.
"Saints!" cried Kelly. "Was ye hit by a train, Grogan, or did ye merely jump
from the trestle?"
"It could've been both," said Grogan, "considerin' the feel of it. But the
truth is, I was in bed with Murphy's wife when Murphy himself comes in with a
murtherin' big shillelagh in his hand, and the inconsiderate creature beat the
livin' bejazus outa me."
"He did indade," said Kelly. "But couldn't ye defend y'rself, Grogan? Hadn't
ye nothin' in your own hand?"
"Only Mrs. Murphy's ass," said Grogan. "It's a beautiful thing in itself, but
not worth a dom in a fight."
