I was at my wits’ end to know what to do.  I had dared so much, all had gone so surprisingly well, that it was heartbreaking to be foiled with liberty almost within my grasp.  A great wave of disappointment swept over me until I felt my very heart sicken.  Then I heard footsteps and hope revived within me.

I shrunk back into the darkness of the area behind the refuse bins standing in front of the bay nearest the door.

Within the house footsteps were approaching the scullery.  I heard a door open, then a man’s voice singing.  He was warbling in a fine mellow baritone that popular German ballad: 

“Das haben die Maedchen so gerne
Die im Stuebchen und die im Salong."

The voice hung lovingly and wavered and trilled on that word "Salong":  the effect was so much to the singer’s liking that he sang the stave over again.  A bumping and a rattle as of loose objects in an empty box formed the accompaniment to his song.

“A cheery fellow!” I said to myself.  If only I could see who it was!  But I dare not move into that patch of yellow light from which the only view into the scullery was afforded.

The singing stopped.  Again I heard a door open.  Was he going away?

Then I saw a thin shaft of light under the area door.

The next moment it was flung back and the waiter, Karl, appeared, still in his blue apron, a bucket in either hand.

He was coming to the refuse bins.

Pudd’n Head Wilson’s advice came into my mind; “When angry count up to four; when very angry, swear.”  I was not angry but scared, terribly scared, scared so that I could hear my heart pulsating in great thuds in my ears.  Nevertheless, I followed the advice of the sage of Dawson’s Landing and counted to myself:  one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four; while my heart hammered out:  Keep cool, keep cool, keep cool!  And all the time I remained crouching behind the first two refuse bins nearest the door.

The waiter hummed to himself the melody of his little ditty in a deep bourdon as he paused a moment at the door.  Then he advanced slowly across the area.

Would he stop at the refuse bins behind which I cowered?

No, he passed them.

The third?  The fourth?

No!

He walked straight across the area and went to the bin beneath the stairs.

I muttered a blessing inwardly on the careful habits of the German who organizes even his refuse into separate tubs.

The man had his back to the door.

Now or never was my chance.

I crawled round my friendly garbage tins, reached the area door on tip-toe and stepped softly into the house.  As I did so I heard the clank of tin as Karl replaced the lid of the tub.

A dark passage stretched out in front of me.  Immediately to my right was the scullery door wide open.  I must avoid the scullery at all costs.  The man might remain there and I could not risk him driving me before him back to the entrance hall of the hotel.