“Franz Schneeberg was about to step out onto the platform, when another man came bursting through the entry door. He was short, portly, and wore a large Calebrese hat. The man was in such a hurry that he failed to notice Franz. The two collided with such force that the portly fellow stumbled backwards and fell to the ground, flattening his glasses that had slipped from his nose.”
What follows is a comical verbal exchange between the two men. 

“Tarnation!” the stranger cursed. “Why are you standing there like a statue? Can’t you make a little room for disembarking passengers?”

“Indeed,” Franz replied laughing. “Now get up, go home and sin no more, or something far worse will befall you; only your pince-nez fared the worse.”

The portly man looked about him, spying the spectacles as they protruded from under his posterior. “Heavens!” he exclaimed, clearly annoyed. “Both lenses have broken. This is all your fault, you… you inconsiderate Urian.”

“That’s true,” Franz acknowledged. “Because if I hadn’t stood there, then you would have had the misfortune of running into someone else. Now then, may I inquire your name, as a reminder of this unexpected encounter?”

The rotund fellow straightened up. “My name is Hieronymus Aurelius Schneffke,” he uttered in a huff. “That’s plain as pudding. I can—Heavens! I’m supposed to place an order for the ladies, and it just sounded for the second time.”

Hieronymus collected his hat and rushed toward the closest door. He opened it and called to the occupant. “Two buttered ham sandwiches with the fixings. But make it quick. I’m in a hurry.”

“Is that what you wish to telegraph, my good man?” Franz heard an amused voice in front of him.

Hieronymus looked up and to his horror saw he had mistakenly ventured into the telegraph office. “Of all the luck. I’ve got to get a move on,” he yelled and threw open the door. He looked around for the appropriate sign.

“Re—re,” he read squinting. “Yes, that has to be it. And I’ve wasted four minutes already.” He threw open the second door and proclaimed his order as he stepped inside.

“Two buttered ham sandwiches with fixings. But quickly. I’m in a rush.” He pulled out his purse with one hand, while he wiped sweat from his brow with the other.

“Well, how much are they?” There was no response. “What do they cost?” Still no answer. At last, Hieronymus squinted for a better look. To his chagrin, he found himself all alone in the room. Once again, he left empty-handed and tried to decipher the sign outside the door.

“Re—re—reservations,” he stammered. “Well, if that doesn’t take the last straw. How could I have been so blind? Now I really have to hurry.”