Running to the window, Scrooge opened it and cried out to a boy in the street. “What’s to-day!”

“To-day!” replied the boy. “Why, Christmas Day.”

“It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. Do you know the poulterer’s, in the next street but one, at the corner?” Scrooge inquired.

“I should hope I did,” replied the lad.

“An intelligent boy!” said Scrooge. “A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey, the big one?”

“What, the one as big as me?” returned the boy. “It’s hanging there now.”

“What a delightful boy!” said Scrooge. “I would like you to buy and deliver it to Bob Cratchit in Camden Town. Here’s money for the turkey, and a crown if you deliver it at once!”

“Delivery fee is two crowns, sir.”

“Two crowns? That seems like a lot,” replied Scrooge. “Wait, what am I saying? It’s Christmas! Two crowns it is, my delightful young boy!”

“You haven’t met the order minimum, guv’nor. Hardly worth it to go all the way to Camden Town for just one turkey.”

“Two turkeys? I don’t want two turkeys. What would Bob Cratchit even do with two prize turkeys?” answered Scrooge, but soon the Christmas spirit grabbed hold of him again. “Oh, listen to me. Yes, send two turkeys to Bob Cratchit. God knows he deserves it!”

“Would you like to complete your order with crab rangoon or boba tea?”

“Complete my order? What does that even mean?”

“Just suggestions, sir,” said the boy. “They’re quite popular. Who wants to eat just turkey on Christmas?”

“Fine. Two prize turkeys, crab rangoon, and boba tea to Bob Cratchit in Camden Town. Off you go at once, my lad.” Scrooge wasn’t sure what crab rangoon was, but he thought it might have cream cheese.

“In the past, you’ve ordered veal and foie gras, heavy on the cruelty. Would you like to order that again?”

“No, that was the old Scrooge!” he said, embarrassed. “Frankly, I was often a little tipsy when I ordered. Now be off, my good boy; the Cratchits will be eager to celebrate Christmas!”

“It’s going to take two hours.”

“Two hours!” he exclaimed.

“It’s peak. Some carolers are demanding figgy pudding. They won’t leave until they get it.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped. Two hours it is. I take solace in knowing I’m supporting a local business.”

“We charge the poulterer thirty percent.”

“Thirty percent!” shouted Scrooge. “Not even Jacob Marley would charge a business thirty percent!”

“Don’t blame me,” replied the boy. “It all goes to my boss, sir. I barely get by on tips.”

“Tips? I thought that’s what the delivery fee was for.”

“My company takes the entire delivery fee. You were a capitalist until five minutes ago—you should know how these things work.”

“But even I gave Bob Cratchit Christmas off! Paid!”

“Exactly. Tipping’s the least you could do. Delivery’s four crowns now, by the way. Surge pricing. It is a holiday, after all.”

“Why do you stay with this wretched job, my charming boy?” asked Scrooge, genuinely concerned.

“Not many options for urchins in this economy. It’s Baker Street Irregulars, Fagin’s pickpocketing gang, selling flowers to linguists in Covent Garden, or this. To be honest, I wish I were an Elephant Man—that’s where the real money is.” The boy looked down at his feet, wishing he could spend Christmas with his own family. “Anyway, that’s eight crowns for the turkeys, a crown each for the crab rangoon and boba tea, four crowns surge pricing delivery fee, plus tip. Oh, and four crowns for taxes and other fees…”

“Other fees? A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket!”

“Any delivery instructions? Like, ‘Leave it on the porch, so they don’t have to make eye contact with the laborer sent out into a snowstorm on Christmas?’" suggested the boy. “Also, make sure the address is right. You’d be surprised how often people send turkeys to their work address or their ex-girlfriend’s house by accident, and that’s a whole thing.”

“Yes, Cratchit’s house in Camden Town. He’s hard to miss—usually has a small boy on his shoulder. Now off you go, my child.” This made the boy think of his own father.

“Please rate my performance,” said the boy, looking up at Scrooge with pleading eyes. “And remember, anything less than five stars will send me to the workhouse.”

“Yes, fine. Five stars. Now off…”

“What did you like about my performance? Prompt service? Accurate order? Delicious food?”

“Well, I don’t really know yet… you know what? It’s Christmas. All of the above! And here’s a sovereign for your tip!” He tossed the coin down to the boy, who caught it in his bare hand, then began to pedal away on his penny-farthing. “Wait!” said Scrooge. “This is a one-way street! You’re biking the wrong way!”

“Riding one’s bicycle against traffic is company policy, sir!” The boy’s voice trailed off as he disappeared into the snow. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge, and God bless us every one!”