Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he’d
just been run over by a train. His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his
face is cut, and bruised, and he’s walking with a limp.
“Aye, now. What happened to you?” asks Sean, the bartender.
“Michael O’Connor and me had a fight,” says Paddy.
“That little skinny O’Connor?” says Sean, “How could he
do that to you? He must have had something in his hand.”
“That he did,” says Paddy, “A shovel is what he had, and
a terrible beatin’ he gave me with it.”
“Well,’ says Sean, “You should have defended yourself the
same. Didn’t you have something in your hand?”
“That I did,” said Paddy. “Mrs. O’Connor’s breast was in
my hand. And a thing of beauty it was; but useless in a fight.”
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