"Here's a nice lot, folks," the auctioneer drawled as his assistant lifted a cardboard carton. "Sheets, towels, hardly used. Who'll start it off with ten bucks? Seven-fifty, then. Five…"

The bidding started at two dollars and went up by fifty-cent increments. "That was a good buy," Cheryl said, as the box was finally knocked down for eight dollars. "But it's early yet, the crowd is just getting started."

"Good buy? Who wants sheets other people have used?"

"You sleep on 'em all the time in hotels," Cheryl said practically. "Do you know how much new sheets cost, even on sale? How're you doing-getting the hang of it?"

"I need to scratch my chin," Karen said nervously. "But I'm afraid to move. Some of these people seem to bid by raising an eyebrow, or wriggling their ears."

Cheryl grinned. "No problem. Fred's a good auctioneer; he knows a serious bidder from a nervous twitcher. Just hold up your card when you want to bid. But watch out for auction fever."

"What's that?"

"Bidding on things you don't want and don't need."

"Why would anybody do that?"

"It's like a disease," Cheryl said seriously. "It still happens to me sometimes; comes on without warning. You find yourself going higher and higher and you can't seem to stop. If you see me doing it, just take my card away from me and don't let me have it back, even if I beg."

Karen laughed, thinking she was joking. Nothing like that would ever affect her! She decided, though, that she would rather accept some unwanted article than admit she had made a gesture in error; many of the bidders were known to the auctioneer, and he interspersed his droning spiel with jokes and friendly insults. "Sam, if you don't want the stuff, stop waving your hat; I don't care if the flies are driving you crazy. Lady, you're raising your own bid; it's okay by me, but try to keep track, will you?"

Cheryl bought a box of bedding for six dollars, and Karen regretted her earlier snobbish comment. The sheets weren't for Mark's expensive town house; they were for the home Cheryl hoped to establish for herself and her little boy.

The sun rose higher and the complexions of the bidders turned pink and shiny with sweat. A few people left, having attained their hearts' desires or lost them to higher bidders, but the crowd increased as late-comers arrived. The auctioneer turned his mike over to a colleague and retired into the shade.

Karen was about to suggest that they emulate him when the attack Cheryl had warned her of occurred. It came on her with the suddenness of a sharp pang of indigestion, when a box of odds and ends was about to be knocked down for two dollars. Before she knew what she was doing, she was waving her cardboard ticket high above her head.

"Two-fifty," the auctioneer droned. "Do I hear three bucks?"

He didn't hear three bucks, for the excellent reason that there was nothing in the box except two rusty license plates and a red plaster dog with a chipped ear. The auctioneer's assistant deposited the box at Karen's feet, and Cheryl giggled. "What did you do that for?"

"I don't know," Karen admitted.

She and Cheryl contemplated the red plaster dog. "A rare example of antique folk art," said Cheryl.

The two exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter. "I warned you," Cheryl gasped, wiping her eyes. "Give me your card."

"No, no. I'm all right now," Karen assured her, clutching the magic ticket. "I won't do it again, I promise."

When the auctioneer started on the last row of decrepit furniture, Cheryl glanced at her watch. "Let's get something to eat and check out the things inside. It should take him about half an hour to finish this lot."

"No, wait a minute," Karen said abstractedly. "I want to see how much he gets for that old rusty stove."

"No, you don't. Aren't you hungry?"

"No. I just might be able to use that-"

"Karen!"

"Oh, all right," Karen grumbled, and let herself be led away.

Karen was glad she had a knowledgeable companion; she would not have thought to bring something to sit on, and now that her fit of auction fever was subsiding she realized her legs were wobbly with weariness. They found their chairs and Karen collapsed with a sigh.

"I should have told you to bring a hat," Cheryl said, looking anxiously at Karen's flushed face.

"I'm fine. Just let me sit a minute."

"You stay there, I'll get us something to drink."

She returned with cold drinks and sandwiches and two pieces of cake. Karen decided to forget about her diet; the cake was homemade and delicious. Refreshed and revived, she got to her feet and headed purposefully for the tables at the front of the shed, followed by an amused Cheryl.

Karen was tempted to linger over the dishes and glassware. Some of the pieces, especially the hand-painted Bavarian and Austrian bowls, were quite charming. However, after having watched Julie sell a single goblet for three hundred dollars and another that looked identical for twenty-five, she had decided she would not deal in such items. She simply didn't know enough about them, and she couldn't become an expert in every field of antiques.

One table was piled with linens and quilts. The choicer of these items were displayed on wooden racks, and Karen reached a covetous hand toward an appliqued quilt, each square of which had a different pattern.

"That's an album quilt," Cheryl said. "The squares were made by different friends-"

"I know, Julie had one. She sells these things for five and six hundred dollars. If I could get it for two hundred-"

"You won't," said another woman, who was subjecting the quilt to a searching scrutiny.

Karen stared at her. She was a pleasant-faced person, about Karen's age, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and laughter lines around her mouth; but Karen's viewpoint had changed. All other bidders were now potential rivals, and she was prepared to dislike each and every one of them.

"Are you going to bid?" she asked suspiciously.

"Probably. But I won't get it either. See that gal over there?" A flick of her thumb indicated a tall, white-haired woman dressed elegantly and incongruously in a knit dress, hose, and heels. "That's Liz Nafziger. She's got more money than God, and she collects linens and quilts. She can top any offer I could make, because I have to make my profit."

"You're a dealer?" Karen asked.

The woman nodded. "I have a shop in Harper's Ferry. Quilts, coverlets, old lace, vintage clothing."

"My friend is a dealer, too," Cheryl said proudly. "She specializes in vintage."

"Oh?" The other woman's smile faded; she and Karen studied one another warily. "Where's your shop?"

"I don't have one yet," Karen admitted. "I'm just starting. To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Sisters under the skin." The other woman held out a tanned dusty hand. "Helen Johnson."

Karen introduced herself and Cheryl. "I don't want to bid against you," she began.

"Boy, do you have a lot to learn," Helen said bluntly. "You bid against anybody and everybody, dear, and the devil take the hindmost. Don't bid against Liz, though, unless you want to run the price up just for spite. And speaking of spite, there's one you want to watch out for- see that fat little dumpling with the rosy cheeks and the sweet smile? She's got a place in Baltimore and she'll rearrange the boxes while you aren't looking."

"I don't understand."

Helen nudged the cardboard cartons under the table with her sandaled toe. "Well, suppose you scrounge around in these boxes and find something you'd like to have. You're bidding on the whole lot, but that one piece makes it worthwhile. So when your box comes up, you bid, and you get it cheap, and you think, hip hip hurrah- until you take a closer look and discover the one item you wanted isn't there. By a strange coincidence it happened to work its way into the box Margie just bought."