And, as ill-luck would have it,
in a day or two he caught his first winter's cold. For several
years a succession of influenzas, sore-throats, lumbagoes, had
tormented him from October to May; in planning his present work,
and telling himself that it must be finished before Christmas, he
had not lost sight of these possible interruptions. But he said
to himself: 'Other men have worked hard in seasons of illness; I
must do the same.' All very well, but Reardon did not belong to
the heroic class. A feverish cold now put his powers and
resolution to the test. Through one hideous day he nailed himself
to the desk--and wrote a quarter of a page. The next day Amy
would not let him rise from bed; he was wretchedly ill. In the
night he had talked about his work deliriously, causing her no
slight alarm.
'If this goes on,' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have
brain fever. You must rest for two or three days.'
'Teach me how to. I wish I could.'
Rest had indeed become out of the question. For two days he could
not write, but the result upon his mind was far worse than if he
had been at the desk.
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