The best man

Cyril Gordonhad been seated at his desk but ten minutes and was deep in the morning’s mail when there came an urgent message from his chief, summoning him to an immediate audience in the inner office.
The chief had keen blue eyes and shaggy eyebrows. He never wasted words; yet those words when spoken had more weight than those of most other men in Washington.
There was the briefest of good-morning gleams in his nod and glance, but he only said:
“Gordon, can you take the Pennsylvania train for New York that leaves the station in thirty-two minutes?”
The young man was used to abrupt questions from his chief, but he caught his breath, mentally surveying his day as it had been planned:
“Why, sir, I suppose I could—if it is necessary——” He hesitated.
“It is necessary,” said the chief curtly, as if that settled the matter.