“Who is that loyal Princeton man who seems never to miss a game?”

“He is not a Princeton man,” I replied.  “He is Knox the Harvard scout.  He will be with Haughton to-morrow at Cambridge with his dope book.”

“From questions asked me I am quite sure that there is an utter misconception of the work of the scouts for the big league teams,” says Jimmy.  “I have frequently been asked how I get in to see the practice of our opponents, how I manage to get their signals, how I anticipate what they are going to do, what is the value of scouting anyway.  From five years’ experience, I can say that I have never seen our opponents except in public games.  I have never unconsciously noted a signal even for a kick, much less made a deliberate attempt to learn the opponents’ signals or code.  What little I know of their ultimate plans is merely by applying common sense to their problem, based on the material and methods which they command.  As to the value of scouting, volumes might be written, but suffice it to say that it is the principal means of standardizing the game.  If the big teams of the country played throughout the season in seclusion, the final games would be a hodge-podge of varying systems which would curtail the interest of the spectator and all but block the development of the game.

“The reports of the scouts give the various coaching corps a fixed objective so that the various teams come to their final game with what might 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.