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 arse," said Grogan. "Tis a beautiful thing in
itself, but not worth a dom in a fight."
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