A little figure, spry as a stoat, in grey flannel trousers, white sleeveless sweater, bobbed this way and that, swung his Bright arm flail-fashion, tried to make his legs into springs. It was the Prince of Wales. He was trying for the amateur squash racquets championship of England. His opponent was one T. Bevan of the Guards. The scene was the Bath Club, London. How was he doing, this agile prince? His service was clever, his backhand singularly strong. Now and then he said something aloud in a voice at once fierce and hearty....
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