Colonel Jimmy was sitting over by the reading table and I saw him prick up his ears at this remark. He always manages to scrape an acquaintance with all the beginners.
Small went booming along.
"I can remember," said he, "when people who played golf were supposed to be a little queer upstairs. Cow-pasture pool, we used to call it. It's a good deal like shinny-on-your-own-side, ain't it?"
Archie took him out to David to get him outfitted with clubs and things, left Small in the shop, and came back to explain matters to me.
"You mustn't mind Small's manner," said he. "He's really one of the best fellows in the world, but he's—well, a trifle crude in spots. He's never had time to acquire a polish; he's been too busy making money."
"Excuse me"—Colonel Jimmy had been listening—"but is he in any way related to the Caspar Smalls of Chicago and Denver?"
"Not that I know of, Colonel," said Archie.
"You spoke of money," said I. "Has he so much of it, then?"
"Barrels, my dear boy, barrels. Crude oil is his line at present. And only thirty-five years of age too. He's a self-made man, Small is."
I couldn't think of anything to say except that he must have had a deuce of a lot of raw material to start with—and if I put the accent on the raw it was unintentional.