“Why, he has nothing to confess!” broke in Sam. “He was here Saturday evening. I can testify to it.”
To Sam’s surprise, Duncan turned roughly upon him. “It’s no use for you to say that. You’d better keep your fingers out of it.”
Mr. Alsop nodded approval. “I respect your desire to help your friend, Archer, but false testimony will only serve to hurt you without benefiting Peck.”
This calm assumption that he was prepared to act the part of a false witness wounded Sam’s self-respect and stirred his indignation. For the instant, however, he was dumb with astonishment. Before he could gather his wits to make protest, Duncan had turned away from Mr. Alsop and shot at his chum a beseeching look, emphasized by a vigorous side jerk of the head, that closed the boy’s opening lips.
Again silence, broken by Mr. Alsop.
“It is better to make a clean breast of it, Peck,” he said, in a persuasive voice.
Peck drew another long breath and lifted his eyes to the instructor’s face. He had evidently taken a deep resolution.
“Tell me everything frankly,” encouraged Mr. Alsop.
“I wasn’t in Boston at all,” declared Duncan, lapsing suddenly into a sullen manner. “I haven’t been in Boston for five weeks.”
Mr. Alsop’s face hardened. “You insist on that story, do you?”