He turned the envelope over. In addition to Ralph Milleridge’s name and address, the message First Class Mail was printed and underlined.
“The stamp cancellation seems to be in order,” muttered Mr. Strang, peering closely at it. “Part of the postmark is smudged where it printed onto a strip of tape that was folded over the edge of the envelope. But it was mailed in Aldershot, all right.”
“The date, Leonard,” said Guthrey impatiently. “What’s the postmark date?”
“May thirteenth.”
“You see,” said Ralph. “The tenth was a Saturday. I mailed this late the following Monday, after school. So it got postmarked the next day — Tuesday, the thirteenth.”
Without replying, Mr. Strang picked up a long pair of scissors from Guthrey’s desk. With some difficulty he worked the point under the layers of tape sealing the flap. Cutting through both tape and flap, he opened the end of the envelope.
Inside was a small sheaf of papers — a carbon copy of Ralph Milleridge’s work. The teacher removed the first page, glanced at it, and shook his head sadly.
“Read it, Leonard,” ordered Guthrey. “Read it out loud.”
“ ‘To the average person, the word clone brings to mind images of huge monsters or...”
Guthrey turned to Arthur Osgood. “You’ve already admitted you didn’t finish your paper until this past weekend, Arthur,” he said. “That’s about ten days after this was mailed. It’s pretty evident that you must have copied Ralph’s work. As a result I’m forced to—”
“No! I didn’t cheat!” And with a loud cry Arthur Osgood ran out of the office.
Driving home through the peaceful streets of Aldershot that afternoon, Mr. Strang growled angrily at himself, and the pipe between his clenched teeth emitted clouds of foul-smelling smoke. Arthur had cheated, that was evident. The sealed envelope containing Ralph Milleridge’s carbon copy and dated May thirteenth was proof beyond all question.
Still, Mr. Strang had doubts. Why, for example, had Ralph mailed himself a copy of his paper in the first place? And why would he carry the envelope with him into the principal’s office? It was almost as if he expected someone to copy his work. Or else—
The teacher swung the wheel sharply, drove two blocks out of his way, and stopped at the Aldershot post office. The postmaster, Dewey Langdon, was a former pupil of Mr. Strang’s, and he greeted the teacher jovially.
“Hi, Professor. Read any good books lately?” And Langdon laughed loudly.
Mr. Strang smiled — a bit grimly, perhaps — and put the first of his questions.
“Dewey, are you acquainted with a boy named Ralph Milleridge?”
“Sure. He’s in here from time to time. Darnedest thing, now that I think of it. He was in here a few weeks back, mailing a letter to himself.”
“Oh? What did it look like?” asked the teacher.
“One of those big brown envelopes. The flap was taped down real good as if there was something valuable inside. I weighed it in and gave Ralph fifty-four cents in stamps. Four ounces, first class mail. He stuck the stamps on the envelope and mailed the thing. That’s about it.”
“Fifty-four cents? You remember that?”
“Sure do. One of the quarters he gave me was Canadian. I had to ask him for a U.S. quarter — that’s why I remember the incident. Something else I can do for you, Mr. Strang? We’ve got a bargain in fifteen-cent stamps today. Two for thirty cents.” And again Dewey’s hoarse laugh rang out in the small post office.
“No, Dewey. But I appreciate the information.”
So much for the theory that the tape had been added after the envelope was delivered, thought the teacher as he drove off.
Mrs. Mackey, the owner of the house where Mr. Strang rented a small second-floor room, was out when he got home. She’d left a note saying that she was visiting her nephew and wouldn’t be home until late. So, as the teacher sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of canned soup and watching the sunset through the rear window, he was surprised to hear the front door softly open and then close.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
There was a rustling sound from the living room. Mr. Strang went to investigate. At first he saw nothing. But then he spotted the dim figure sitting in a gloomy corner. He snapped on the lights.
“Arthur Osgood, what are you doing here?” asked the teacher in surprise.
Arthur, red-eyed and with tears streaming down his cheeks, spoke in a high reedy voice. “Don’t get mad, Mr. Strang. The doorbell didn’t work, and the front door was unlocked, and — and I just came in.”
Mr. Strang went to the door and shot the inside bolt. Then he turned to Arthur again. “You just don’t walk into people’s houses unannounced and take a seat,” he said. He was about to go on when the distraught expression on Arthur’s face silenced him.
“But I had to see you, Mr. Strang. I wouldn’t ever — I didn’t—”
Mr. Strang sat down opposite the boy. “Arthur,” he began, “I don’t know what to tell you. All year long I’ve stressed the importance of that paper to your final grade. Why did you have to—”
“But I didn’t, Mr. Strang. I swear I didn’t cheat! And now I’m not going to graduate and — and—”
“Arthur, you’ll graduate. You have enough credits, even without my class. Maybe I came on a bit strong in Mr. Guthrey’s office, but you’ll graduate. Does that make you happy?”
“No, sir. It doesn’t.”
“No? Then what is it you want?”
“I–I don’t want to leave school with you thinking I cheated on any of my work, Mr. Strang.”
For a moment the old teacher felt as if someone had jabbed him in the solar plexis. In the long silence that followed, tears welled up in his own eyes. He blinked them back and looked at the blurred figure of Arthur Osgood.
“Does my esteem really mean that much to you?” Mr. Strang asked softly.
The boy nodded.
“As I live and breathe,” muttered the teacher to himself. “In this day and age, to find a young person who values the good opinion of others — remarkable! The era of Being Cool and Doing Your Own Thing still has a few kids who put reputation above all else. Remarkable indeed.”
“Huh?” said the boy.
“Nothing,” replied Mr. Strang, with a shake of his head. “Nothing, Arthur. But for what it’s worth I believe you. In spite of the evidence. I don’t think you copied Ralph’s paper. Anyone who did something like that wouldn’t come calling the way you did this evening.”
“Thanks, Mr. Strang. It means a lot to me.” Arthur let out a long sigh. “But I guess everybody else will figure I cheated anyway.”
“I suppose they will.” But then Mr. Strang pounded the arm of his chair viciously. “No, confound it! If you didn’t cheat, then Ralph Milleridge did. And he came up with that envelope gimmick to prove his innocence when the two papers were discovered. The question is, how did he manage it?”
For several moments both teacher and student pondered the problem. Could the flap have been tampered with in some way? No, Mr. Strang was sure that was impossible, especially in light of what Dewey Langdon had told him. Could a duplicate envelope have been used somehow, or the postmark forged? In fiction perhaps, but not by a high-school student in real life.
“All right, Arthur,” said Mr. Strang finally. “Let’s start at the beginning. Is there any way Ralph could have got a look at your work?”
Arthur thought about this. “I don’t see how,” he said. “I mean, we were both doing papers on cloning, so we talked about the references we were using and stuff like that. But the only time I took my paper out of the house was—”