"What did they do," asked Keith tensely, forgetting his usual reserve.
"Oh, you know," replied Johan teasingly.
"I don't," said Keith stoutly, realizing that it was a dreadful admission of inferiority. "And I want you to tell me."
For a moment Johan hesitated. Then he shot at Keith a single word--a verb--that Keith had heard in the lane and among the longshoremen on the Quay. He knew that it was bad--the worst one of its kind. He knew also in a vague sort of way that it touched the very heart of the mystery he was trying to solve. And yet it left him just as ignorant as before.
The bald use of that word by Johan stunned him for a moment. Then his hot thirst for light brushed all other considerations aside, and he said almost pleadingly: "Can't you tell me all about it?"
"Oh, everybody knows," said Johan, and his eyes began to wander shiftily as they always did when he found himself cornered.
"You don't know yourself," Keith taunted him, suddenly grown wise beyond his ordinary measure.
"Yes, I do," insisted Johan.
"Then tell--or I won't believe you."
"They did what your papa and mamma do nights," Johan shot back.