They'd come to see him, and apparently he was telepathic, or at least smart enough to know that a fancy jet meant to come out and greet someone; Logan hadn't even had time to grow bored before the man they'd come to see flew up and proceeded to be impressive.
It took a lot to impress him. Knowing Russian didn't. Knowing about Rogue's powers didn't. Carefully formal manners didn't. Claims of waiting for them didn't. All those were shiny pieces that he could have found out some other way, or made a very good stab at, or were just common sense - though sometimes people proving that they did have the sense God gave a bird was impressive, way the world was.
It was the techno-organic man quietly knowing one of his favorite foods, from recollections that were more general than memories - knowledge of, not how he knew something or the people he'd been with. Things that he wasn't inclined to share with just anyone.
And he wondered...given his healing factor. "No," he told Bobby, his eyes on Cable. "But," he added to their host, "You may as well tell me how long I last." He'd lived since the Civil War, and without aging; how long did he have to live before he looked older?