The rain beat heavily on the roof, swirled down the side walks and made tumbling torrents of the gutters. Turning from the window in disgust, Peter dropped his baseball mitt on the library sofa and started glumly toward the stair. No practice to-day, doggone it! Why couldn't it rain on Mondays and be clear on Saturdays for a change? How was he to have the team in trim for the big match if this sort of thing kept up? Kicking crossly at each step, Peter progressed toward the attic. Not to waste the day, he resolved to have a look at his fishing tackle. The thought of the fishing trip he was soon to take with his grandfather cheered him considerably and by the time he had switched on the attic…
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