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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." 




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