In January, 1886, an incident that is worth narrating occurred.  In my office a new junior clerk was required.  An advertisement in the newspapers produced a large number of applications, and about a dozen of the applicants were selected to be seen, one after the other, by Pinion and myself.  Before lunch one day we interviewed half a dozen or so.  Returning together from lunching in the city, as we neared the station, Pinion drew my attention to a youth who was evidently making for the railway premises.  Said I to Pinion:  “If that youth is one of the candidates, I’ll be surprised if he’s not the boy for us.”  It was only a back view we had of him, but he held himself so well, walked so briskly, looked so neat, smart, and businesslike that he arrested attention.  That boy, Charles A. Moore, then fresh from school and just fifteen, is now general manager of the railway!

It was in 1886, too, that I first met Walter Bailey, between whom and myself a friendship sprung up which grew in depth and sincerity as time went on, lasted for thirty years, and was only terminated by his lamented death in January, 1917.  The friendship thus formed yielded much pleasure and happiness to me and, I think I may safely say, also to my departed friend.  Bailey, who was about my own age, came to Ireland from the South-Eastern Railway, soon after my settlement in Belfast, to fill the position of Accountant to the Belfast and Northern Counties Railway.  Two young Englishmen, landed in Ireland, engaged in the same sort of business, in the same city, would naturally gravitate towards each other but, more than this, what made us such intimate friends were, tastes in common, similarity of views, especially concerning railway affairs, a mutual liking for literary matters, and—­well, other less definable things that form the foundation of all true friendships.  Throughout our long intimacy we often took counsel together on subjects of mutual interest, but it was I who sought his advice and help much oftener than he sought mine, for he was cleverer than I. Indeed in the whole railway world I never met an intellect so quick, or so clear and luminous as his.

Bailey was the most unselfish man I ever knew; the readiest to help others.  His pen, his remarkable stores of knowledge, and his spare time too, were always at the service, not only of his friends, but often of those who were scarcely more than mere acquaintances.  The amount of work which he cheerfully imposed upon himself in this way was astounding and never was it done grudgingly or half-heartedly, but always promptly and generously.  It afforded him a pleasure that only one endowed as he could feel.  This part of him was often the subject of talk with those of us who knew him well.  But what charmed me most, more even than his brilliant mental gifts, were the sweetness of his disposition and his quaintly quizzical and happy humour.  Ambition was not strong in him, was in fact all but absent, and he