And I'm tired of drifting in here nights at your beck and call, to be sent home like a kid when your mood changes.

Mighty amusing for us! If you're not vivisecting our lives and characters for us in that impudent, philosophical way you have, you're preaching a sermon that you couldn't--and wouldn't--follow yourself.

And then you end by messing everybody's cards in a heap and sending us home with the last pot in Dick Wherry's pocket whether it belongs there or not.

I tell you, I'm tired of it." Carl laughed, a singularly musical laugh with a note of mockery in it.
"Who," he demanded elaborately, "who ever heard of a treasonous barnacle before?
A barnacle, Starrett, adheres and adheres, parasite to the end as long as there's liquid, even as you adhered while the ship was keeled in gold.

Nevertheless, you're right.