When my fellow M.A.S. boardman Patterson called upon me one evening, interrupting my dinner, I must admit I wasn't much pleased to see him. "Good evening Arthur," he said.

"What do you want?" I replied, recalling the dollar he'd still owed me going on nearly a month, and wishing to return to my beef.

"You remember Weismann?" he asked, with the smug obtusity of a man who does not intend to pay back a debt nearly a month after the lending.

"Philip or Gregor?"

"I don't know of Gregor."

"Then yes, I remember him." Philip Weismann was a somewhat retired, somewhat wealthy, and somewhat mad aficionado of foreign ruins and relics, the kind of Englishman who liked to immerse himself in the quaint culture and quiet hubbub of a small New England township for three months out of the year while at the same time carrying about him an air of pedigree, education, and property which he seemed to believe elevated him a bit above the humble townsfolk of Monteclair.

I did remember Weismann, not with fondness but with mixed disdain and irritation. The Englishman had often traveled abroad during the months he deemed unpleasant (that is, all excepting July, August, and September) and brought back with him many artefacts and relics any of us in the Monteclair Archaeological Society (upon the board of which my inconsiderate caller and I held position) would have much liked to examine.

Unfortunately for us, time and time again our polite personal inquiries and formal, dignified letters were met with niggardly refusal. "With all respect due," one particularly chafing response patronized, "I do not trust my own compatriotic associates with my finds, let alone a band of unruly colonial hicks and hacks." It was at about that time my ulcers began to manifest.

At any rate, the mere mention of Weismann's name was enough to put me completely off my dinner. "Well, what about him?" I asked with a twinge in my gut, mentally adding ruination of appetite to the ever-growing list of offenses my unwelcome caller has committed against me.

"Were you aware Weismann returned just this Monday from his voyage to the ruins in Mexico?" Patterson asked.

"No. What of it?"

"He brought back several artefacts, including a mummified corpse."

This piqued my interest, for mummies and preserved bodies have always fascinated me, and moreover I had never heard the like of a Meso-American mummy. Of course, I entertained no notion of getting even a glimpse of it, and said as much to Patterson.

"For once," he said, "You may very well get to see something that Brit brought back with him."

I endeavored not to allow my excitement to show. "What? You mean to say Weismann, that paranoid ingrate, has finally suffered a change of heart?"

"Stop of heart, more like. Weismann's dead."

"Dead!"

"Oh, yes. Malaria, as it turns out. Contracted on his journey, I'd assume, and sickened after his return, for he seemed in excellent health waltzing down the street on Monday, waving his cane about like a dandy."

But by then my mind had recovered from the loss of my vague acquaintance Weismann (alas, I wish I had known him well), and was moving quickly on with the implications of Weismann's death. "He hasn't—No, he couldn't have willed his collection to the Society in a fit of lunacy?"

Patterson laughed bitterly at this. "I'm afraid not. It appears the man's lawyers back in England convinced him to leave his New England estate to auction and have the money sent back overseas to his nephews or what have you.

"The good side to the story being we here in lonely Monteclair get first pick before the Manchester Historical Association comes and buys it all up." We put aside our differences—that is, I politely ignored his shortcomings—for a moment as we two fellows of the Monteclair Archaeological Society shared a moment of disdain for our rival but most assuredly inferior association.

"When is the auction?" I asked.

"To-morrow at eight o'clock, in the Salon."

"I will be there," I assured him.

***

The loftily-named Salon de la Société was, in truth, little more than the lower hall of the Poisson Library (named for the very rich and very generous Madame Alda Poisson whose open-handed donations had made the library possible) wherein the Monteclair Archaelogical Society held its meetings.

I arrived and took my place among the rest of my associates just two minutes to the strike of eight, eyeing the gathered crowd and assembled goods with alternating competitive paranoia and scholarly greed. When the hour arrived Mr. Carnegie, residing président, stood and addressed the assembled crowd.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Fellows of the Monteclair Archaeological Society," he began, "...And most honored guests," he continued thinly, glaring at a pair of wolfish Manchesters who had somehow gotten wind of the auction in time to pollute the pure halls of the Salon with their alien presence. The two smiled back patronizingly, and Mr. Carnegie continued.

"We gather here in a time both tragic to the human psyche and wonderful to the scholarly mind, for as you all know, the illustrious Mr. Weismann—that adventurous, closed-minded man—has departed from us in a sudden fit of malaria. It is with great sadness—stop snickering, Patterson—it is with great sadness I begin the auction of those articles of the late Philip Weismann which fall under the classification of 'artefacts, relics, and historical curios' as dictated by this, his last will and testament.

"The first item on the list," he said, holding aloft a shallow, velvet-lined box filled with an assortment of stone axe-heads, "comes to us from the barrow of an ancient Briton..."

As the list dragged on, the gathered fellows drank in every detail with a fixed fascination, but few among us felt the desire to purchase any item. By and large, the artefacts and curios were the sorts which we'd all seen a hundred times and again, cheap achronistic trinkets with no context and so no real meaning. The first few items were quickly snatched up, true—now then, Weismann! See how we take hold of your forbidden fruit!—but interest quickly dwindled after the third misshapen iron buckle in succession was placed upon the table alongside the unclaimed others.

For my part, I won a near-flawless Minoan vase and a couple of Egyptian sacrificial knives. Patterson and one of the Manchesters haggled briefly over the possession of an ornate blow-gun of dubious origin (leaving me to ponder bitterly how Patterson could afford to spend two dollars and a half at auction while still in my own debt) but at about ten o'clock most gathered were tiring of the ordeal. The thrill of finally laying eyes on Weismann's dragon hoard had inevitably worn off.

It was then Mr. Carnegie turned and, with the help of one of the younger fellows, hoisted an ungainly box onto the display table. Excitement radiated through my ulcer-ridden stomach: At long last, that which I had come to see!

"This," puffed le président, "This item comes to us from the late Mr. Weismann's fateful final voyage to the ruins of Meso-America, a genuinely unique find. Gentlemen, I present to you the Mummy of the Tehotico!"

I strained forward to better see the mummy at the moment of its unveiling, but neither Mr. Carnegie nor his assistants made any move to pry open the crate in which the article lay.

"Are we to see the goods for purchase?" called a fellow to my right.

"Not likely," Mr. Carnegie replied. "In the, erm..." He glanced in irritation at the Manchesters, unwilling to give them any grounds for scoffing at the situation of our rival (and of course superior) association's gathering hall. "In the damp so unavoidable for this time of year," he eventually said between gritted teeth, "it would be rather unwise to expose the item any more than need be. If you wish to bid, Wilmont, you may expose it to the, erm, weather, all you like on your time." Wilmont fell silent, settling back with a bemused countenance.

"Do I hear ten dollars for this fascinating article?" Mr. Carnegie called out, but before I could move a muscle, the broad, husky yaw of a Manchester called out "Heah!"

Mr. Carnegie nodded at the man. "Sir, a simple raise of the hand will do. I ask you exercise civility whilst among us." After a moment, "For the last time, Patterson, stop laughing or I swear the chair will find you guilty of contempt and fine you a nickel!"

I turned to look at the Manchester who had expressed interest in the mummy—my mummy!—and received a cool gaze in return. Never had a bowler and walrus mustache seemed as repulsive to me as they did upon the hog-like visage of that out-of-towner who deigned to stand between me—even as Weismann had—and my pursuit of scholarly knowledge. I determined there and then I would have the mummy, if for no other reason than to deprive this alien in our midst of the thing he desired.

I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and there was Patterson, recovered from his fit of mirth, nodding grimly in assurance. "Give 'im hell," he said in a low voice, and I thanked him in the same tone. Then, turning back to the front of the room, I steeled my will and opened my cheque-book.

"Do I hear twelve dollars?" Mr. Carnegie asked.

I raised my hand.

"Do I hear fourteen?"

The Manchester and I, now quite agitated, threw up our arms simultaneously, waving them vigorously.

"Do I hear sixteen?"

"Yah do!" the Manchester called.

"Yes, sir!" said I.

Mr. Carnegie was past caring about silence in order; he saw at once the M.A.S. stood to make a good deal of money (for of course the society would take a modest administration fee from the proceeds of the auction before sending along the rest to the family of the deceased) and I could tell he was becoming as excited as the Manchester and myself.

"Do I hear eighteen dollars?" he asked quickly.

Again, the Manchester and I responded immediately, jostling our neighbors aside as we inched forward, each man straining that his hand should be seen first, that he might have the edge over his rival. "Here! Here!" we both cried.

A bead of sweat dripped from the tip of Mr. Carnegie's bulbous nose, and his hands trembled. "Gentlemen," he began, making vain efforts to calm himself. None of the other items in the auction had so much as broken eight dollars. "Do I hear... Twenty?"

The Manchester hesitated for the briefest fraction of a moment, and I knew I had won. But then I felt an anxious twinge in the depths of my acid-pitted stomach, for the other Manchester, a tall, thin, knobbly man with greying hair and sardonic smile slipped a wad of bills into his companion's hand, and my rival's visage grew determined once more. I knew I had to end this swiftly and decisively, not only now in the name of science, but in the name of the Monteclair Archaeological Society.

"Monsieur Président," I bellowed forth, spreading my arms grandly, "You hear thirty dollars!"

All grew quiet for just a moment, and then my rival—now red-faced and breathing heavily—turned and stormed in agitation from the Salon, leaving myself as the only bidder. "Sold," Mr. Carnegie announced, an Olympian grin of triumph spread from cheek to cheek, and a polite round of applause filled the (admittedly small) room. No raucous cheering could have instilled in me a greater swell of pride.

The auction consisted of several more items, but to all gathered, it had truly ended with the sale of the Mummy of the Tehotico.