“Hallo, my fine fellow!” called Screwge from his window.
“Hallo!” returned the little mecha.
“Do you know if they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there?”
“What, the turkey as big as me?” returned the mecha. “It’s hanging there now.”
“Is it?” said Scrooge. “Go and buy it, and tell ’em to bring it here, that I may give the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I’ll give you twelve credits.”
“I’ll send it to Bob Ratchets!” whispered Screwge, rubbing his hands and splitting with a laugh.
It was not until an hour later that he realised that a family of mechas could no more get nutrition from a prize turkey than he could photosynthesise, but his mood was such that even this seemed like a capital joke. And there was time enough to follow the turkey with a good old-fashioned voltaic pile.
“I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future!” said Screwge. “Even if it’s sometimes impossible to tell them apart.”