Free The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis by Barbara O'Connor Page A

his hand at cajoling.
    â€œI bet you make the best Yoo-hoo boats in Fayette,” he said.
    That was the flattery part of cajoling.
    â€œShoot, I bet you make the best Yoo-hoo boats inthe whole state of South Carolina,” he said to Star-letta.
    That was adding more flattery to the cajoling in case the first flattery wasn’t enough.
    Starletta did not look particularly flattered.
    She tossed some rocks into a rusty metal wagon and said, “Wanna help me build a monument?”
    Popeye looked at Elvis, who gave a little nod and made some faces like he was sending Popeye a secret signal.
    â€œUm, a monument?” Popeye said. “What kind of monument?”
    Starletta tossed another rock into the wagon with a clang. “Just a plain ole monument,” she said.
    â€œUh, sure.”
    So Popeye and Elvis helped Starletta gather rocks, filling the wagon until the rocks began to tumble over the sides and the wagon was so heavy all three of them together could hardly pull it.
    Boo sat in the shade under the porch steps, snapping at the gnats that flitted around his droopy eyes.
    While Popeye looked for rocks with Starletta, heworked on the sustained coaxing part of cajoling.
    He asked her where the dead dogs lived. (Three times.)
    He reminded her that today was Wednesday. (Twice.)
    He told her that Dooley and Shifty were digging out the Holiday Rambler right this very minute so Elvis would be leaving any time now.
    But nothing worked.
    Starletta just kept looking for rocks and digging up rocks and carrying rocks over to the wagon without saying a single word.
    Elvis looked like he was about to bust wide open. His face was red and his fingers clenched into fists until his knuckles turned white. He kicked at dirt and puffed his cheeks out and let go with big, sputtering sighs that blew his hair up off his forehead.
    Popeye was starting to think that he would never get the hang of cajoling.
    But then he got an idea.
    â€œHey, Starletta,” he said. “If you show us where the dead dogs live, you can ride in the Holiday Rambler.”
    Starletta froze, holding a dirty rock over the wagon with both hands. “Really?”
    â€œYep.” Popeye nodded. “Right, Elvis?”
    Elvis’s face lit up. “Sure!”
    Starletta dropped the rock into the wagon and raced toward the garden calling, “Come on!”

24
    POPEYE’S INSIDES WERE SWIRLING in a yippee kind of way as he raced around the garden and into the woods with Elvis and Boo, following Star-letta to the dead dog place. A thick layer of rotting leaves and clumps of moss carpeted the narrow path that zigged and zagged and zigged some more. From somewhere through the trees came the faint, water-flowing sound of the creek. Popeye and Elvis and Boo hurried to keep up with Star-letta as they jumped over logs and pushed aside branches.
    And then . . .
    . . . the path ended.
    The sky was suddenly open and bright above them, no longer hidden by the thick, overhanging branches of the trees. Boulders and tree stumps and dense, overgrown shrubs lined the edges of the clearing. On the far side, a gravel road disappeared over the slope of a weed-covered hill.
    Starletta threw her arms out and said, “Ta da!”
    Scattered around the clearing, nestled among the weeds and wildflowers, were grave markers.
    Some of them were stone.
    Some of them were wood.
    Some of them were old and crumbling and falling over.
    Some of them were shiny and clean and standing straight.
    And some of them had pictures on them.
    Pictures of dogs.
    â€œSee?” Starletta said. “Dead dogs.”
    A dog cemetery!
    Popeye was dumbstruck.
dumbstruck:
adjective
; so shocked or surprised as to be unable to speak
    Starletta pointed to a sign nailed to a tree at the edge of the cemetery:
    Â 
    ONLY CEMETERY OF ITS KIND
IN THE WORLD;
ONLY COONHOUNDS ARE ALLOWED
TO BE BURIED HERE
    Â 
    â€œWhat are coonhounds?” Elvis said.
    â€œHunting