Within a month, the entire feminine population of Greencastle was his for the asking, though he'd never have recognized nor admitted the fact. The men sought his company, too, and even asked his advice on how to win their girls back from him. Edgar, almost sick with happiness, told them, of course.
On the eleventh of November, he was sick with something else. He went to bed with a fever right after getting home from the Emporium, Mrs. Peterson hovering helplessly with offers of hot broth or tea. But Edgar felt hot and dry and his side hurt when he breathed.
"I don't want anything ... thank you," he gasped politely.
By the next noon, when the alarmed Emma Peterson had Dr. Ward in, Edgar was barely conscious. Dr. Ward frowned, ordered hot water bottles and gave Edgar a huge dose of hot whiskey with lemon.
"Penicillin, please," whispered Edgar painfully. "Or sulfa. It's pneumonia, isn't it?"
"Poor fellow's delirious," said the doctor to Mrs. Peterson.
Edgar realized dimly that he had made a blunder, but that no one would know. Then the fever took over and he blanked out.
Dr. Ward claimed ever afterward that clean living was what pulled Edgar through—the fact that he wasn't conditioned to liquor gave the medicinal whiskey virgin ground to work in.
All Edgar knew was that he came to and found himself so weak that he could scarcely speak. Mrs. Peterson and her daughter, Marta, bustled in and out to care for him. He hadn't paid particular attention to Marta before, but in the days of lying helpless and being literally spoon-fed, he began to know her very well.