Tim Kelly was walking through a dim passageway when someone spoke to him. "Good evening, Kelly," said the muffled figure. "Don't ye be knowin' your old friend Grogan any more?"
Kelly stared at Grogan. His face was a patchwork of bandages and adhesive plaster. One arm was in a sling and he leaned 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 indeed," said Kelly. "But couldn't ye defend yourself, Grogan? Hadn't ye nothin' in your own hand?"
"Only Mrs. Murphy's arse," said Grogan. "It's a beautiful thing in itself, but not worth a damn in a fight."
