Tim Kelly was walking therough a dim passageway when someonespoke to him. „Good evenin‘, Kelly,“ said the muffledfigure. „Don’t ye be knowin‘ your old friend Grogan any more?“Kelly stared at Grogan, whose face was a patchwork of bandagesand adhesive plaster. One arm was in a sling and he was leaningon a crutch.“Saints!“ cried Kelly. „Was ye hit by a train, Grogan, or didye merely jump from the trestle?““It could’ve been both,“ said Grogan, „considerin‘ the feel ofit. But the truth is, I was in bed with Murphy’s wife when Murphyhimself 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 thingin itself, but not worth a dom in a fight.“
