You delve deeper, using the back of your hand as a plow-share.
No scissors.
Refusing to be baffled, you leave no garment unturned.
No scissors.
Growing a trifle impatient, you take out the main tray and tackle the mezzanine. This will be a simple matter, because it is so shallow that you have only to feel around the edges.
No scissors.
Perhaps they got shaken into the middle. You burrow there, making considerable work for the clothes-presser.
No scissors.
Now you are genuinely angry. You toss the mezzanine upon the arms of a chair. It is a rocking-chair, and it slides the tray gently forward and deposits it face downward on the floor.