Tim Kelly was walking thorough 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."