In his early days at the Great Northern, sundry skirmishes at the Clearing House had taken place between him and me, which for a time produced a certain amount of estrangement, but we afterwards became excellent friends and saw a good deal of each other.  He was no longer a general manager, having given up that post for another which was pressed upon him—­the post of Chairman of the Irish Board of Works.  It was certainly unusual, unheard of one might say, in those days, for an important government office to be conferred upon a railway official, though now it would excite but little surprise.  The Government it was thought contemplated something in the shape of a railway policy in Ireland, and had spotted Robertson as the man for the job; it was certainly said that someone in high authority, taken greatly by his sturdy independence, his unconventional ways, and his enormous energy, had determined to try the novel experiment which such an appointment meant.  I do not think that Robertson himself ever really enjoyed the change.  He liked variety it is true, but governmental ways were not, he often said, his ways, and he seemed to lack the capacity to easily adapt himself to new grooves.  Unconventional he certainly was, and never in London even would he wear a tall hat or a tail coat; nor could he ever be persuaded to attend a levee or any State function whatever.  He usually dressed in roughish tweeds, with trousers unfashionably wide, and a flaming necktie competing with his bright red cheeks, which contrasted strongly with his dark hair and beard.  He was, however, a strong manly fellow, with a great deal of determination mingled with good humour.  Usually in high spirits, he often displayed a boyish playfulness that resembled the gambols of a big good-natured dog.  He was musical too, and would sing Annie Laurie for you at any time, accompanying himself on the piano.  To practical joking he was rather addicted, and once I was his reluctant accomplice, but am glad to say it was the last time I ever engaged in such rude pleasantry.  I can write of him now the more freely that he is no longer of this world.  Excessive energy hastened his death.  In 1901 he went to India to investigate for the Government the railways there, and to report upon them.  It was a big task, occupied him a long time, and I am told he worked and lived there as though he were in his native temperate zone.  His restless energy was due I should say to superabundant vitality.  Once, when he and I were in London together, on some railway business, we took a stroll after dinner (it was summertime) and during a pause in our conversation he surprised me by exclaiming:  “Tatlow, I’m a restless beggar.  I’d like to have a jolly good row with somebody.”  “Get married,” said I. This tickled him greatly and restored his good humour.  He lived and died a bachelor nevertheless.