Tim Kelly was walking therough a dim passageway when someone spoke to
him. Good evenin, Kelly, said the muffled figure. Dont 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 couldve been both, said Grogan, considerin the feel of it. But the
truth is, I was in bed with Murphys 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 couldnt ye defend yrself, Grogan?
Hadnt ye nothin in your own hand?

Only Mrs. Murphys ass, said Grogan. Its a beautiful thing in
itself, but not worth a dom in a fight.