Paul-David Van Atta got in line at the Baltimore Convention Center around 6 a.m. Saturday, lugging a 5-by-3-foot painting he suspected could date back to the 16th century.

Van Atta was just one of the thousands of collectors, speculators and just-plain folks in a line that wrapped around the outside of the convention center one-and- a-half times. All had made the early-morning trek to get a free appraisal of their cherished what-have-yous at PBS' "Antiques Roadshow."

Some, like John and Lydia Phillips, wanted to find out what they had. The Phillipses brought an African-looking figure his grandfather had unearthed at a building site in the '40s. Some just thought that appraisal day would be fun, like Christine Kowal, who carried a desktop thermometer distributed as a promotion for the Charles Engraving Co., once located at 508 N. Eutaw St.

And some, like Van Atta, were hoping for a killing.

"I bought it at an antiques show for $250," said Van Atta, of his painting of Jesus standing before Pilate. Convinced he had gotten something for almost nothing, Van Atta didn't mind the hassle involved lugging the painting from Northern Virginia. "It was really tough getting it here; we had to borrow the neighbor's van, take the hotel shuttle. And I've been propping it here on my shoes pretty much since we got here."

In fact, nobody seems to mind a long wait for the "Antiques Roadshow," that roving band of antiques appraisers who offer their expert opinions for free on what has become one of public television's most-watched shows (it airs Mondays at 8 p.m. on MPT, Channels 22 and 67). The experts pulled into Baltimore Saturday, giving those who landed one of the 6,800 tickets the chance to have two items appraised and possibly be filmed for inclusion on shows from the Baltimore stop, which should air sometime next year.

All were eager to pick the experts' brains. "It's really hard to get to the curators of the museums," said Van Atta, as the line inched forward ever-so-imperceptibly. The one art expert he'd managed to show his painting to recently "was really stumped by it."

Inside the Convention Center, barely managed chaos reigned. Those on the floor faced another huge line before getting their treasures into the appraisers' area.

"That's OK, I kind of expected it," said Martin Goldenberg, a retired government worker who was here with his wife, Sarah. They had brought an old mortar and pestle, a pair of statues and a Javanese kris ("a wavy dagger," he explained) from their home in Gaithersburg.

Another 45 minutes would pass before they reached the experts. First they would have to approach the triage table, where a generalist like Ginnie Farrell would point them toward the appropriate appraisers, whose expertise covered many fields, including toys, timepieces, paintings, memorabilia, jewelry, pottery and porcelain, textiles and a handful of others.

Fortunately, the Goldenbergs were content to be patient.

"I have an idea what this stuff is worth," Martin Goldenberg said from his position at the very back of the triage line. "But I'm really curious as to what they'll tell me."

"The newspaper said to come early, wear comfortable shoes and bring a seat," said Bill Christopher, a retired pressman for The Sun. "They weren't kidding."

Fully half the fun (maybe three- quarters, depending on what your curiosities turn out to be worth) was looking at the stuff everyone else was carrying around.

Judy Smith drove down from Lancaster County, Pa. with an old brown hand fan she'd paid $8 for at a flea market. On one of its folds someone had scrawled, "Kidnap Keet Baby, Springfield, Mo." Smith had found a 15-month old baby of a prominent Springfield family had been kidnapped at the turn of the century. But why someone had made that notation on the fan remains a mystery.

"I'm hoping the Keets will seek me out and are willing to part with some of their big bucks," she said somewhat wistfully.

Anne Mitchell of Annapolis came with her husband, Larry, a hoarder from way back ("Our house is full of a lot of interesting things," she said with an indulgent smile). While he was getting a ring appraised, she was left carrying around a two-foot silver robot advertising Mido self-winding watches.

"I know it came from a gas station in Nebraska," she said fingering the robot's left hand, which had just recently become detached from the rest of its wooden body. (An appraiser later said it could easily be restored and would not seriously affect the robot's value.)

John Margetanski brought a 5- 1/2 foot high African ceremonial object all the way from his home in Endicott, N.Y. There had to be a story behind the huge wooden bird perched atop the shoulders of a female figure less than half its size -- if only someone here could tell him what it was.

And then there was Gil Langley of Chantilly, Va., standing in line holding the wooden torso of a man. The piece had some age on it; insects had eaten away at the wood; one of its glass eyes was broken and much of the paint has chipped off. The opinions of those standing in line with him were divided: it was either some sort of religious statue or the masthead off a centuries-old ship.

By 2 p.m., when the last wave of ticket holders was let into the convention center, a few thousand people already had found out what they had. And there were some pleasant surprises.

Catherine Elliot, 18, and her sister Marisa, 12, came down with their mom from Hanover, Pa. They had brought a bag of old magazines, which turned out to be worth only a few bucks, and a "Star Wars" comic that was too new to have much value.

But that old lock their grandfather had given them was another matter. Dating back to the 1860s, it was appraised at $90-$100. "I thought that wouldn't be worth anything," marveled Catherine. "It's just a lock."

Sue Anderson of Waldorf had a similar reaction when told the little metal scale she'd thrown into her pocket at the last minute was a guinea tester from the 1840s, used to weigh and ensure the authenticity of the fabled British coin. She'd paid a buck for it, and couldn't believe it was worth at least $80.

"I thought my pipe was going to be the big item," she said of an elaborate smoking apparatus that turned out to be worth no more than what she'd paid for it. "This is wonderful."

But few people went home happier than Rich Clark, who found out that the old pistol he'd dredged out of his safety deposit box was worth between $20,000 and $30,000.

"Yeah, it was a surprise," Clark deadpanned after his appraisal was filmed for possible inclusion in the finished show. "I was thinking maybe $1,000 to $2,000, maybe $5,000 at the most. I never dreamed it would be worth six times that."

The ivory-handled Colt five-shot, 32-caliber revolver had belonged to his great-great-great-grandfather, who was a sheriff in what was then Monte Christo County, Calif.

Carol Wagner's 7-foot spear turned out to be an artifact from the Revolutionary War, an American-made "spontoon" that would have been carried in place of a firearm by a Colonial officer.

"My grandfather gave it to my brother," explained the 39-year-old paralegal from Stafford, Va. "I thought it was Hessian, but it turns out to be American."

It also turned out to be worth $1,500. Which was nice, but not nearly as nice as finding out granddad knew what he was talking about.

"It's very odd for someone to give you a spear and say it's from the Revolution," Wagner said. "It's nice to get that verified."

Not everyone was so lucky.

John Rogers of Baltimore brought an elaborately decorated wine vessel that had been given to his father by a woman he'd rescued off the streets of St. Louis during the Depression. It had been owned by Marie Antoinette, the woman claimed, and had been given to her maid, the woman's great-grandmother.

Great story. But ...

"The appraiser didn't buy into it at all," Rogers said, adding he was told it was German in origin and probably not old enough to have been owned by Marie Antoinette.

"I don't care," a skeptical Rogers retorted off-camera. "To me it's a treasure regardless of what happens ... a reminder that my father cared enough about this woman to care for her all her life."

Watching paintings

Over at the paintings table, the moment of reckoning was at hand for Van Atta. About time: it was nearing 3 p.m. and he'd been waiting in line nine hours.

"I almost feel guilty about having paid so little for it," he said about his painting. "I don't think the woman knew what she had. I feel like, if I can sell it for a lot, maybe I ought to give her some."

Like, maybe he'll give her 10 percent of anything over $1 million?

"Exactly," he laughed.

But judging by the appraisal, neither Van Atta nor that antiques dealer in Alexandria, Va., was going to get rich anytime soon.

Appraiser Kathleen Harwood said she couldn't be certain, but her best guess was that his unsigned painting was a copy of an earlier work, wasn't that old and wasn't worth that much.

However, she admitted that was only a guess. "Honestly, I don't know what to tell you," she said after inspecting the painting for several minutes. "Sometimes people bring things into us, and we don't know what they are. This may be the kind of thing where you just need to keep showing it to people until someone can tell you something about it."

Harwood wasn't encouraging.

"I don't think it's going to have a substantial value," she speculated. "At auction, I have trouble imagining there would be a lot of competition for it."

Afterward, Van Atta was not happy. "That's OK," he said without smiling. "I'll just take it to somebody who knows what they're looking at.

"They said it was a puzzle ... I knew that standing in line."