“My God! What happened to you?” the bartender asks Sean as he hobbles in on a crutch, one arm in a cast.
“I got in a tiff with Riley,” he replies.
“Riley? He’s just a wee fellow,” the bartender says. “He must have had a weapon in his hand.”
“That he did. A shovel it was.”
“Dear Lord. Didn’t you have anything in your hand?”
“Aye, that I did—Mrs. Riley’s left tit,” Sean laments. “And a beautiful thing it was, but not much use in a fight.”