Danger signals

Quick as a flash the Kid had my arm.
Copyright 1898, 1899 By S. S. McClure Co. Copyright 1899 By Doubleday & McClure Co. Copyright 1900 By Jamieson-Higgins Co.

As I put down my name and the number of the crack engine of America—as well as the imprint of a greasy thumb—on the register of our roundhouse last Saturday night, the foreman borrowed a chew of my fireman's fine-cut, and said to me:
John, that old feller that's putting on the new injectors wants to see you.
What does he want, Jack? said I. I don't remember to have seen him, and I'll tell you right now that the old squirts on the 411 are good enough for me—I ain't got time to monkey with new-fangled injectors on that run.
Why, he says he knowed you out West fifteen years ago.
So! What kind o' looking chap is he?
Youngish face, John; but hair and whiskers as white as snow. Sorry-looking rooster—seems like he's lost all his friends on earth, and wa'n't jest sure where to find 'em in the next world.
I can't imagine who it would be. Let's see—'Lige Clark, he's dead; Dick Bellinger, Hank Baldwin, Jim Karr, Dave Keller, Bill Parr—can't be none of them. What's his name?
Winthrop—no, Wetherson—no, lemme see—why, no—no, Wainright; that's it, Wainright; J. E. Wainright.