“And does she expect me to look on, too?”
“Certainly.”
Barth sat with his shoe horn hanging loosely in his hand.
“But, Mr. Brock, I don’t know a bad pig from a good one,” he protested hastily.
“Oh, it’s quite easy to tell. Just pinch him a bit about the ribs. If he is fat and squeals nicely, he’ll go. But, as I understand it, you aren’t to do the marketing. You are expected to carry the basket for them.”
Barth looked up from his second shoe.
“The basket?”
“Yes. Women here take their baskets with them.”
“And get them filled?”
“Surely. Then they bring them home.”