ight be considered a uniform examination to pass. The result is a
steady, logical development of the game from the inside and the maximum
interest for the spectator. It is unfortunate that the public has
misconstrued scouting to mean spying, for there is nothing underhanded
in the scouting department of football as any big team coach will
testify."

Knox tells of an interesting experience of his Freshman year.

"I never hear the question debated as to whether character is born in a
man or developed as time goes on," says he, "without recalling my first
meeting with Marshall Newell, probably the best loved man that ever
graduated from Harvard. In the middle '90's it was considered beneath
the dignity of a former Varsity player to coach any but Varsity
candidates. Marshall Newell was an exception. Without solicitation he
came over to the Freshman field many times and gave us youngsters the
benefit of his advice. On his first trip he went into the lineup and
gave us an example of how the game could be played by a master. When the
practice was over, Ma Newell came up to me and said: 'I guess I was a
little rough, my boy, but I just wanted to test your grit. You had
better come over to the Varsity field to-morrow with two or three of the
other fellows that I am going to speak to. I'll watch you and help you
after you get there.' And he did. He was loved because he was big enough
to disregard convention, to sympathize with the less proficient and to
make an inferior feel as if he were on a plane of equality. The highest
type of manhood was born with Marshall Newell and developed through
every hour of a too short life.

"Only those who played football in the old days and have carefully
followed it since appreciate the difference in the two types of game. I
frequently wonder if the old type of game did not develop more in a man
than the modern. As a freshman I was playing halfback on the second
Varsity one afternoon when a sudden blow knocked me unconscious while
the play was at one end of the field. When I regained consciousness the
play was at the other end of the field, not a soul was near me or
thinking of me. I had hardly got within ear-shot of the scrimmage when I
heard Lewis, one of the Varsity coaches, call out, 'Come on, get in
here, they can't kill fellows like you.' I went into the scrimmage and
played the rest of the afternoon. It was a simple incident, but I
learned two lessons of life from it: first, you can exp