"Mogey," said Smush, excitedly blowing a cloud of ashes from his whiskers, "I do not think it's an exaggeration to say that I've found us the greatest gig in the history of gigs."
Mogey, who knew his pal's history of hairbrained and ill-advised employment, eyed Smush suspiciously. "This better not be as bad as reshingling the latrines at that tuna cannery."
"I thought you liked working at Pupener & Sons! And anyhow, this job blows that one away, at least in an olfactory sense. Here, smell."
Mogey sniffed Smush's proffered sleeve. "Mmm," he said. "Barbeque pitmaster?"
"Not quite," Smush replied. "We'd eat up all the profits."
"Beekeeper?"
"I like where your head is at, but no purveyor of foodstuffs would hire us. In addition to the profits, I think we'd eat up lots of bees besides."
"I give up," said Mogey, finally. "What could this smokey profession be?"
"Just think," Smush answered. "What job has it all? The sweet scent of coal, reliable access to hearth kettles full of porridge, and the distinct possibility of spotting Santa. We're going to be chimneysweeps!"
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