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 greatest number" and all that sort of thing, and so it found little sympathy. And after its first burst of indignation the Scrub relapsed into grumbles and accepted the inevitable—and "Steve." "Steve" was rather a surprise, too. He proved in short order that, while he might be a specialist in baseball, and not know everything there was to know about the gridiron game, he was quite competent to see the Scrub Team through the rest of its season. And he made rather a hit with the fellows at the outset by not "pulling a line of guff," as "Wink" Coles elegantly expressed it, about being unfamiliar with the duties and relying on them all to help him. No, "Steve" didn't ask any assistance. He just took hold on Tuesday afternoon at twenty minutes to four, and gave each and every one a good, hard "six licks at the dummy," not hesitating to tell them how rotten they were—most of them—nor being at a loss for improving instructions. They resented his criticism more because it seemed to reflect on "Cocky" than for more personal reasons, but they didn't harbor resentment long. "Steve" kept them too busy, maybe. They trotted over and tried to take a fall out of the First at four-thirty, and didn't do so badly, for the First still lacked the services of Fargo, and one or two other lesser lights, and, besides, appeared to be suffering slightly from unsettled nerves. The Scrub sent Johnny Thayer across the big team's goal in the second half of the game, and was scored on thrice by the opponent.

Fargo sat on the bench, his left knee enormously