It preyed upon his conscience, nevertheless. The thought uppermost in his mind was expressed in a reply which he made to a question asked by Mr. Bloomer on an afternoon of that week. Zach and Primmie were, as so often happened, involved in an argument and, as also so often happened, they called on him to act as referee.
“We was talkin' about names, Mr. Bangs,” explained Primmie. “He's always makin' fun of my name. I told him my name was pretty enough to get put into poetry sometimes. You know—”
“I told her,” broke in Zach, solemnly, but with a wink at Galusha, “that the only thing I could think of to rhyme with 'Primrose' was 'Jim Crows.'”
“I never said it rhymed,” protested Miss Cash, hotly. “You can have your name in poetry without its rhymin', I guess likely. You're always tellin' me about how 'Zacheus he, climbed up a tree—' Now if your name had to rhyme 'twould have to be—er—er—well, nothing',” triumphantly; “'cause nothin' COULD rhyme with Zacheus.”
Mr. Bloomer, solemn as ever, shook his head.
“Yes, it could,” he declared. “What's the name of that plant Lulie's got in the settin' room window over home? The one with the prickers on it. Cat-tailed—no, rat-tailed—um—”
“Cactus.” Galusha supplied the word.
“That's it,” said Zach. “That would do it.
'Old man Zach'us
Shinned up a cactus—'
Have to step lively, wouldn't he?” he added, with a chuckle.