“No doubt; but I’m not absolutely certain that this Callaghan has his finger on the pulse of his public.”
He led the way back to the ‘Pottery Pig,’ which was nothing more than a large barn, set well back from the street, and approached over a rough expanse of half-cut grass. The barn had been allowed to retain its faded red paint, but its big doors were now closed and padlocked. A faintly beaten track led the visitors around the corner to the south side, where a narrow entrance gaped darkly between show windows. The first contained marines, and landscapes in water-colour and oil; the second, pottery.
“My gracious,” said Mitchell, staring. “Is that the Pig?”
He might well ask, since its tail alone identified it. It was a monstrous animal, pinkish, highly glazed, and covered with dark spo
