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The Man with the Clubfoot by Valentine Williams
page 55 of 271 (20%)

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.

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