Tim Kelly was walking therough
By 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 ass,” said Grogan. “It’s a beautiful thing in
itself, but not worth a dom in a fight.”
