By midmorning the counter already had a tidy line of spare change, each coin holding a paper number no bigger than a lentil. The slot did not rush anyone. It waited for a nod toward the porcelain pig, then accepted exactly one polite clink.
We asked the keeper at the kiosk how the gadget works. She said the numbers are only a kindness: a coin that knows its turn sleeps better, and a pig that is greeted last does not have to guess. There is no machinery to speak of, just a little tray, a little bow, and a rule that two clinks in a row would be showing off.
A neighbor had whispered that the pig was hoarding the shiny ones. By evening the rumor had softened into something nicer. The guestbook held a single line in careful pencil: the slot said thank you, and the pig said next, please.
The day after, the same copper came back with a fresh number and waited at the end, as if the first visit had been a rehearsal for manners.