Free The Not-so-Jolly Roger by Jon Scieszka Page B

midnight-blue book on my desk.
    “Magic can backfire on you even when you’re trying to do good,” said Sam. “And it will definitely mess you up if you are greedy.”
    “So, Mr. Know-It-All, what do you want to wish for?” asked Fred, pulling his baseball cap down over his eyes.
    “I think we should go visit some famous historical figure and see what they were really like.”
    Fred threw his ball up to the ceiling and caught it. “Go visit some famous historical figure? Get out of here! You should be in one of those other lame magic books with all the other stiffs. Who wants to go visit famous dead guys?”
    Sam pushed his glasses up. “I do.”
    “Get a life,” said Fred. “So we go visit George Washington. We come back. What do we got? Nothing. But, we go visit buried treasure. We come back. What do we got? Millions!”
    “Oh, that’s brilliant, Sherlock. This is the same kind of bright idea that almost got us executed last time. Did you ever stop to think who buries treasure? Pirates, that’s who. And do you know what pirates usually have? Pistols and cutlasses, that’s what. And do you know what they do with those pistols and cutlasses? Shoot and stab people who are trying to steal their treasure, that’s what.”
    “Come on,” said Fred. “I took care of the Black Knight, didn’t I? What’s a few pirates? Joe, you got any pictures of buried treasure in that book?”
    I stuck the quarter in my pocket and picked up The Book. “No.”
    “So there,” said Sam.
    Fred cocked his arm to throw his baseball at Sam.
    “But there is this spell called the All Purpose Time Warper:
    Hickory dickory dock.
    Mouse, turn back the clock.
    The clock won’t strike.
    To go where we like—”
    “Buried treasure,” yelled Fred.
    “No, you jerk,” yelled Sam.
    Fred threw his baseball. Sam ducked. Wisps of pale green mist began to swirl in my bedroom.
    “But wait,” I said, “the spell only works—”
    Fred’s baseball slowed and then froze in midair, only inches away from my desk lamp.
    The Book seemed to melt right out of my hand.
    The green mist swirled faster and higher; covering book, ball, bedroom, and all.

THREE
    Oh, no is right,” said Sam.
    We looked around the island for somewhere to hide. The choices were pretty slim: our three trees, or one big black rock.
    We climbed higher into our trees, and did our best to look like coconuts. We couldn’t see anything, but we could hear the splash of oars and bits of some truly awful singing.
    What do you do with a drunken pirate?
What do you do with a drunken pirate?
What do you do with a drunken pirate
Ear-ly in the morning?
    The small rowboat landed as I peeked through the leaves. Two guys unloaded a chest. One was tall. The other was short. Both wore ragged pants and striped shirts. They were the ugliest and nastiest-looking guys I’ve ever seen ... until I saw the third guy behind them. He was twice as big and twice as nasty-looking.
    He was the one with the awful singing voice, and boy, did he have a face to match. Black hair stuck out everywhere. His black eyebrows and moustache bristled out front. Long black strands fell down his back. And a monstrous black beard, with four pigtails, braided and tied with ribbons on the ends, fell down his chest. To top it all off—the whole mess was smoking!

    But the worst part about this guy was not his crazy hair or black outfit. The worst part was that he was equipped, just as Sam had predicted, with four pistols and one wicked-looking cutlass.
    “Bad luck,” whispered Sam. “I’ll bet anything that’s Blackbeard ... and not the Walt Disney version.”
    “Who’s Blackbeard?” Fred whispered from his tree.
    “His real name was Edward Teach,” said Sam. “Some people say he was the craziest and meanest pirate of all time.”
    “Oh,” said Fred.
    The two ragged guys staggered up the beach lugging the chest between them. The giant black pirate counted off paces behind them.
    “Eighteen, nineteen,