Matthew dozed dreamily in his hammock the next morning. His eyes opened and closed, mirroring the swaying of the Harrower.

The squawk of a seagull had woken him up earlier with a start. The comfiness of his hammock and the warmth of his goose feather bedcover, however, had sent him back to his pillow.

The swaying was really nice. Wait a minute. How was that possible? The boat was sunken. It shouldn't be moving.

Matthew sat up bolt right, a portrait of a pirate hanging from the cabin wall glaring at him. There was something wrong with the boat. Was it miraculously floating again? If so, they were in danger. It could be drifting out to sea or towards the rocks. He was about to warn everyone when he noticed her. The girl, her hair as red as fire, was swinging his hammock.

'Morning. Time to get up,' she whispered. 'We have to get ready.'

'Okay,' Matthew replied. 'Your name's Astrid, right?'

'That's me.'

Astrid hurried off to Norman, his arms and legs hanging over his hammock, and slapped him hard across his face, waking him up immediately. She did the same to John, who fell to the floor in surprise.

'Why can you never wake me up normally, Astrid?' groaned John.

'Same,' said Norman.

'Now that wouldn't be fun, would it?' replied Astrid with a cheeky grin.

Norman helped Matthew down from his hammock. 'So, the order of the morning is this . . . breakfast, get ready and then walk to our job. We never take the car because gas costs money, and also, the ladder doesn't fit. And let me warn you, be very quiet while you're getting ready 'cause you'll never hear the end of it if you wake somebody up. Although, you're new so you might be forgiven.'

'I wouldn't want to chance it,' Matthew replied as Norman led him to the table, where Astrid, John, who was rubbing his cheek, and Stacy were sitting.

'I'll start breakfast,' said Norman.

Taking a seat, Matthew said, 'I was wondering. How do you pick up these chimney sweeping jobs. Do you guys go door-to-door offering your services?'

'No, people call us?' said John. 'Remember I showed you that public telephone box in Whatever-grows park, hidden in the hedge. Well that's how people reach us. Now, how do they know how to reach us? I'll show you.' John reached over and grabbed a newspaper from a pile next to the stove. Then riffling through it, he said, 'Should be somewhere here. There we go.' He showed the newspaper to Matthew and pointed to a small square in the middle. It was an advertisement.

'Want your chimney swept for dirt cheap?' said Matthew, reading the advertisement. 'Then let children do it for you. P.S. The narrowest of chimneys is no match for a child.' There was a telephone number at the bottom and the best time to call.

'We place it in a few of Spring Heights' newspapers every now and again.'

Matthew scanned the newspaper. 'I see there are a few other advertisements for chimney cleaning.' There was one that read, 'The Chimney Cleaning Chaps. In and out in no time, with no mess. With our heavy duty vacuum we suck your chimney clean in five minutes.' Another one read, '1-555-CHIMNEY. Professional chimney cleaning service.' And another. 'SOOT-BE-GONE. Family-run since 1985. Call us or come by our business on Beckonsfield Street to make an appointment.'

'Yep. There's a lot of competition in Spring Heights, but we're the best.'

Rays of sunlight had just bathed the tops of the cliffs inside the cove when they stepped outside the cabin dressed in soot-covered overalls. Matthew was carrying sooty sheets and the others had chimney brushes slung over their shoulders.

Taking a rowboat (they had two rowboats all together, one small and the other big), they crossed the cove to the beach. They then made their way up the storm drain to Whatever-grows Park, where they picked up a long ladder hidden under some twigs.

'So, where are we going?' asked John as they exited the park.

'Number four, Wellington Street,' said Stacy.

'Ah, next to Maple Hill,' said John. 'Matthew, that's where the cart races take place. We keep our carts around there as well.' He turned to Norman. 'Maybe after work we can show him.'

'That's a good idea.' Norman replied. 'Matthew, do you want to do that?'

Matthew beamed with excitement, 'That'll be wonderful.'

Last night, before going to bed, the talk was mainly about the cart races. And the race Slink had won six months ago was told to Matthew with the greatest of enthusiasm (John had acted some of it out). Through the first quarter of the race, Jennifer, Norman, Slink, Astrid and Ramon were in the middle positions, but after an incredible pile up ('Thankfully, nobody was injured,' said Slink,) they moved up to the leading pack. Slink had then managed to take the lead and kept it all the way to the finish line. Matthew had been so engrossed by all the talk. He was really looking forward to seeing the next race.

Walking through the parts of Spring Heights to get to Wellington Street felt incredible to Matthew. China Town, with all its people selling various things, felt as if he wasn't in Spring Heights at all. The waterfront with its pier, of which there was a huge Ferris wheel right on the end, was something to marvel at. And the Old Town, with its stone houses and cobblestone roads, gave Matthew the sense an adventure was waiting around every corner.

Wellington Street was a street of tiny (but not at all poor) houses with decorative eaves, small, lush green lawns, well-groomed hedges and wraparound porches. It was relatively quiet. A postman was on his rounds and a few squirrels were chasing each other.

As they walked up to a bright blue house of number four, Matthew had just realized how hot the day was getting. 'Why do people want their chimneys cleaned in the summer? They can't be using them, can they?'

'No, people aren't using their chimneys,' replied Norman, slinging his chimney brush over to his other shoulder. 'The time when people aren't using them is the best time to clean them.'

'That makes sense,' said Matthew. He rolled up the legs of his overalls. They were a bit long. 'So, who lives here?'

'Mr and Mrs Peterson,' John said to Matthew as Stacy rapped on the front door. 'Old clients of ours. Actually, they were our first ever clients. Nice couple . . . crazy, but nice. They were once professional singers. In a lot of musicals on stage, they told us.'

'Oh wait, there's something we forgot to tell you, Matthew,' said Norman, after readjusting his eyepatch. 'We're not orphans, who live on the street, got it? We each live with our own parents and this is just a summer job. It's a story we tell all our clients.'

Matthew was reminded of the made-up story he had to tell at Bordash Manor.

The door opened.

'Gooood moooorning,' sang the man standing in front of them. The man had on buckled shoes, black tights, and a red jacket with golden epaulettes.

'Crazy,' John mouthed to Matthew.

'Good morning to you, too, Mr Peterson,' said Stacy.

Mr Peterson bent down. 'My word, Stacy. You have grown a great deal since I last saw you. A half foot, at least.'

'Six and a quarter inches to be exact,' Stacy replied.

Mr Peterson's eyes fell on Matthew. 'I don't think I've ever seen you before. No . . . I'm very good at remembering faces.'

'This is Matthew,' said Norman. 'He's just joined our chimney sweeping business. He and his parents live next door to me.'

'Well nice to meet you, Matthew,' he said. 'And what do your parents do?'

Norman answered for him. 'They're teachers, like mine.'

'A noble profession is teaching,' said Mr Peterson, nodding sincerely. ' If I didn't become a singer, it was teaching for me. Any who, enough standing around. Come on in.' He disappeared inside.

'Stacy and I will go up to the roof,' said Norman, and the two of them took the ladder around the side.

John led Matthew and Astrid through the house and into a room that was very musically inclined. There were pianos, harps, a set of drums, and several other instruments which Matthew didn't know the names. There were stacks of sheet music, and a record player with piles and piles of classical records. Also, a disco ball hung from the ceiling.

Mr Peterson was waiting for them just inside as if he was a butler or a footman for some lord. Mrs Peterson, a woman with a warm and caring glow, was also there, playing a harp. She had on a frilly pink dress and her face was completely white with makeup.

Mrs Peterson stopped playing as soon as she saw the children and smiled, small flecks of her makeup floating to the carpet. 'Hello there. Ooh . . . a new one I see.'

'Yes, my dear,' said Mr Peterson. He waved his hand dramatically toward Matthew. 'This is Matthew. His parents are teachers.'

'They teach at the same school as Norman's parents,' said John.

'Uptown, right?' said Mrs Peterson, her eyes narrowing on Matthew. 'I've heard the teachers there are going to protest at City Hall against their funding cuts. Is that true? Have your parents said anything to you?'

'Not a thing,' said Matthew, 'sorry.'

'Shame,' said Mrs Peterson. 'Maybe you could ask them and then give me a ring if they tell you anything. We would really like to join them. Lend them our voices. We could lead the charge.'

'Children are our future,' added Mr Peterson in all seriousness.

Mrs Peterson shrieked in delight, making her husband flinch with fright. 'We could put that on a sign, dear. In bold letters.' She gestured in the air, imagining Mr Peterson's words on a sign. 'Children are our future.'

Mr Peterson laughed out long and loud in approval. It was boisterous and jolly, drowning out all other sounds. He finished by saying, and in a very pompous tone, 'Yyyeesssss.' Matthew thought it all very comical.

John nudged Matthew and mouthed again, 'Crazy.'

'I will ask them,' said Matthew. 'I'll get Norman to ask his parents as well.'

Mrs Peterson smiled. 'I like you, Matthew.' She plucked a string of her harp.

'Are you two practicing for something?' John asked. He had taken the sooty sheets from Matthew and was laying them down on and around the hearth of the chimney.

'Rehearsing,' Mr Peterson said sternly, tucking his chin into his neck. He seemed slightly offended that John used the word 'practicing'. 'And yes. Our local amateur choir, which we are a part of and head, is putting on a show for charity – the money will go towards the new public hospital they're building on Marley Avenue – and we need to be perfect. There are rumors the mayor of Spring Heights could be attending.'

'How wonderful,' said Matthew.

'Oh, it will be,' said Mr Peterson. 'And guess what? The Doctor Alex Parker will be accompanying the vocals. Doc is Spring Height's best pianist.'

'Are you going to be wearing the costumes you have on now at the show? Cause I really like them,' said Matthew.

'Well thank you for that,' said Mrs Peterson. 'They are spectacular, aren't they? But no, we won't be wearing them at the show. We just felt like putting these on today.'

Matthew and John just shot each other looks.

'Would you guys like to come?' Mr Peterson said. 'We have quite a few tickets that we can give away for free. You can bring your parents, friends and the rest of your chimney sweeping troupe.'

'That's a brilliant idea, dear,' said Mrs Peterson. She didn't shriek this time but went all giddy, plucking her harp again.

'Count us in. We would love to come,' said John. Matthew couldn't tell if he meant it.

'I'll give you the tickets once you've finished what you need to do,' said Mr Peterson. 'Come on, my dear, let's leave them to it. It's a lovely morning . . . we can go outside and rehearse. The neighbors will adore it.'

Arm in arm and singing, Mr and Mrs Peterson slipped out of the room.

A voice came down the chimney. It was Norman. 'Ready to go?'

'Yes,' John bellowed back up.

Sweeping a chimney isn't rocket science. You just stick a brush inside the chimney and just move it up and down. Even though it sounds easy, it is hard physical work, especially when you have to stand on someone's shoulders to get to unreachable places. It is also extremely dirty work. Matthew, John and Astrid were showered with soot with every brush stroke, their faces ending up completely black, like Matthew had imagined.

'Get the money?' Norman asked when Matthew, John and Astrid met him and Stacy back outside. Norman and Stacy's faces were hardly covered in soot.

'Yep, got paid,' said John, patting his pocket.

'Good,' said Norman. 'Now don't lose it because that money is for buying next week's flour supply.'

Setting off, John said, 'I'm not going to lose it, but if you don't feel comfortable with me holding it, here.'

'What do you have there?' Stacy asked Matthew.

Matthew held up an envelope and said, 'Mr and Mrs Peterson's choir is putting on a show and they gave us tickets.'

'I said we would go,' said John.

Norman and Stacy did not look too enthused.

'Why the long faces?' Astrid asked.

'After hearing that news,' said Norman, 'and having just heard them sing from all the way up on the roof, you would look like this too.'