There was no discussion that French Frank was a waster.
I was anxious to be gone, out into the sunshine, out over the water to my glorious boat.

But all hands lingered.

Even Spider, my crew, lingered.
No hint broke through my obtuseness of why they lingered.

I have often thought since of how they must have regarded me, the newcomer being welcomed into their company standing at bar with them, and not standing for a single round of drinks.
French Frank, who, unknown to me, had swallowed his chagrin since the day before, now that the money for the Razzle Dazzle was in his pocket, began to behave curiously toward me.

I sensed the change in his attitude, saw the forbidding glitter in his eyes, and wondered.