‘Gorgonzola!’ says Jill.

‘That’s right,’ says the captain. ‘Exactly like gorgonzola.’

‘No, I mean its name was Gorgonzola!’ says Jill.

‘The very one!’ says the captain. ‘But how would a landlubber like you know about a thing like that?’

‘Jill knows everything there is to know about animals,’ says Terry.

‘Is that right?’ says the captain, studying Jill carefully before going on with his story.

‘We knew a Captain Woodenhead!’ says Terry.

‘Did you now?’ says the captain, turning his gaze on Terry.

‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘But he wasn’t very nice. He captured us and then turned us into slaves.’

‘Well, shiver me timbers, that must have been the very captain I’m talking about! Were you boys in a pedal boat by any chance?’

‘Yes!’ I say. ‘A swan-shaped one!’

He turns to Jill. ‘And don’t tell me—you were floating on an iceberg with a bunch of animals?’

‘Yes!’ says Jill. ‘Two dogs, a goat, three horses, four goldfish, one cow, six rabbits, two guinea pigs, one camel, one donkey and a kitten!’

The captain looks at us, amazed. ‘Well, blast my non-wooden eyes!’ he says. ‘It really is you! The story goes that you knocked the captain’s head off with a mop!’

‘Well … yes,’ I say, ‘but he was trying to slice mine off with a sword. We escaped and he chased us, but then we all got caught in a terrible storm. Our pedal boat and the pirate ship were smashed to pieces on the rocks. We were the only survivors. We used the wreckage of the pirate ship to build our treehouse. Look, you can see it up there!’

‘A pirate ship?’ the captain says slowly. ‘You used a PIRATE ship to build yourselves a cubbyhouse?’

‘Not a cubbyhouse,’ says Terry, ‘a treehouse. A thirteen-storey treehouse.’

‘Twenty-six, actually,’ I say. ‘We recently added thirteen more storeys.’

‘But you had no right,’ says the captain. ‘That ship didn’t belong to you.’

‘No, but it was wrecked and the captain and all his crew were dead,’ says Terry.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he says. ‘You didn’t let me finish the pirate captain’s story.’

‘Sorry,’ says Terry. ‘What happened next?’

‘Well, if you’ll just be quiet for the next fourteen pages, I’ll tell you …’

‘Excuse me,’ says Jill, ‘did you say my original ship? Are you Captain Woodenhead?’

‘Aye,’ says the captain. ‘You’re a smart girl. Captain Woodenhead and myself are indeed one and the same.’

‘RUN!’ yells Jill. ‘It’s Captain Woodenhead!’

‘Where?’ says Terry, looking around.

‘There!’ I say, pointing at the pirate captain.

‘Him?’ says Terry. ‘But he doesn’t have a wooden head.’

‘Weren’t you listening, Terry?’ says Jill. ‘He just told us the whole story. He found his original head in Gorgonzola’s belly!’

‘Yikes!’ says Terry. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

‘Not so fast,’ says Captain Woodenhead, jumping up and grabbing us in a pirate hug (which is just like a bear hug, only pirate style). ‘Now I’ve got you and I’m going to make you pay for what you did to me!’

‘But it was all your fault!’ I say. ‘You started it by kidnapping us and making us into slaves!’

‘That may be so, but you knocked my head off with a mop and shipwrecked my boat and stole the pieces! So now I’m going to claim your treehouse—and all who sail in it—in the name of Captain Woodenhead!’

He turns to the other castaways. ‘All right, you scurvy mongrels, get up! The treehouse is ours!’

At the captain’s command his crew stagger to their feet. The captain hands us over to three of the biggest ones while the others obediently begin climbing up the cliffs toward the treehouse.

We kick and struggle against our captors but it’s no use. They are too strong.

‘Well, I guess that’s it,’ I say. ‘No more treehouse.’

‘Never fear,’ says Terry, lifting his T-shirt. ‘My emergency self-inflating underpants are here! Watch this!’ He pulls at a small cord hanging out the front of his trousers.

Terry’s underpants inflate so quickly and with such force that the pirates holding us are thrown backwards onto the sand.

The three pirates jump back up, cutlasses in hand.

‘Hold on to me,’ says Terry as he steps toward them.

‘What are you doing, Terry?’ says Jill. ‘You’re wearing inflatable underpants and they’ve got really sharp swords!’

‘I know,’ says Terry. ‘That’s the idea!’

Before I can ask him what the idea is there is a loud

followed by an enormous whoosh of air and we are blasted up into the sky.

We soar.

We dive.

We climb.

We plummet.

We loop once …

twice …

three times …

and then …

We’re hanging from the branch of a tree.

A big tree.

I don’t believe it.

It’s our tree!

‘Sorry about the rough ride,’ says Terry. ‘I don’t really know how to fly these things.’

‘That’s quite okay,’ I say, untangling myself from the tattered shards of rubber. ‘But what I want to know is why were you even wearing your emergency self-inflating underpants?’

‘Because all my normal underpants are dirty,’ says Terry. ‘That’s why I was washing them, remember?’

‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘That seems like so long ago now.’

‘It’s only been two hundred pages,’ says Terry.

‘Two hundred and thirteen, actually,’ says Jill. ‘But there won’t be many more pages in this book if we don’t protect the treehouse against the pirates. Look! They’re already here!’

We look down. Jill’s right. The pirates have already scaled the cliffs and surrounded the trunk of our tree.