Читать книгу Tom Swift and his Flying Boat or The Castaways of the Giant Iceberg - Howard R Garis - Страница 4
ОглавлениеTHE TREASURE CHEST
Since the Swifts had first known Mr. Wakefield Damon that eccentric character had brought to their attention a number of strange affairs, and some of them had resulted in the betterment of his own and the Swifts’ finances. So, no matter how ridiculous his first proposition might sound, Tom and his father were both ready to listen.
A trip to Iceland would scarcely absorb Tom Swift’s attention just now, but the fortune Mr. Damon promised him a share of might be a thing not to be scorned. In spite of the inventor’s several sources of income and the great sums already invested in the Swift Construction Company and in other well-paying concerns, Tom never saw the time when he could not make good use of more money.
From the time the reader was introduced to “Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle,” the title of the first book of this series, down to the twenty-fifth volume, the one preceding this present story, “Tom Swift and His Electric Locomotive,” the young inventor has found good use for much money.
His inventions—some of them marvels as his father intimated—had brought them in much money, it is true. But it “takes money to breed money;” and always this is true as well as trite in the construction and marketing of inventions.
“It takes the cash to put ’em over,” Ned Newton, Tom’s dearest friend and closest co-worker, was wont to say. “But you scheme ’em out and I’ll find the cash.”
Newton, who was treasurer of the Swift Construction Company, had faithfully done his part whenever Tom got into a place where he needed money. But here was Mr. Damon with the promise of a “fortune” on which no interest would have to be paid. The young inventor was naturally interested, even though he might be up to his very ears in work.
“That sounds awfully interesting,” he said to the blusterous Wakefield Damon. “I don’t care much about the ice—unless that is merely figurative—but a fortune—well, what part of Iceland is it in?”
“I don’t know,” said the visitor bluntly. “But Iceland is not so big a country, is it? Not as big as Australia, for instance, although it is likewise an island.”
“You can’t walk over it in a day, looking for a fortune,” laughed Mr. Swift.
“Don’t expect to have to do that,” said Mr. Damon, with an answering laugh. “But, bless my calipers! we ought to be able to find Rosestone on the map.”
“Is that the name of the place where this fortune is—er—is it buried?” demanded Tom.
“Goodness only knows,” said Mr. Damon, tugging at a big wallet and finally getting it out of his inside pocket. “It may be hanging in the air. But the letter comes from Rosestone. I fancy that is a small town. And that is where the fortune is.”
“A fortune in what?” asked Mr. Swift.
“A fortune of how much?” demanded Tom.
Mr. Damon blinked his eyes very rapidly. Tom wanted to laugh, for he saw very clearly that their questions were making their friend think. Heretofore he had only been thrilled by the idea of the fortune.
“I declare, Tom Swift! I don’t know how much, and I do not know whether the fortune is in money or in stocks and bonds——”
“Or walrus tusks,” laughed Tom. “Part of Iceland, I understand, is a pretty savage country, although the people may be peaceable enough.”
“Then you know something about Iceland, Tom Swift? Bless my geographical dictionary! I can’t find much about it.”
“It is told about in full in the encyclopedia,” said Tom. “And it is a country that has always interested me. But I never expect to go to it——”
“Don’t say that, Tom Swift! Don’t say that!” begged Mr. Damon. “I have got to have your help.”
“How do you know there is enough of a fortune to pay two people for going after it?” laughed Tom.
“Here, Damon,” said Tom’s father, “you are all excited. Sit down here and have a smoke and tell us about it quietly.”
The idea of Mr. Wakefield Damon doing anything quietly amused Tom again. But he waited patiently for their friend to compose himself to a degree and tell his story. Like his father, Tom was curious.
“I’ll tell you about Aman Dele. I met him a good many years before I ever heard of you Swifts. Quite by accident, too. He was a mystery at first. It was by the strangest chance—or so I always thought—that I came across him. He was a man with a pocket full of money, and he was starving to death.”
“Stomach trouble?” asked Mr. Swift shrewdly.
“The money may have been in Russian rubles and there wasn’t enough in his pockets to buy an egg sandwich,” chuckled Tom.
“Neither of you is right,” said Wakefield Damon, rather gravely for him. “Aman Dele had perfectly good money—Danish money, I found out afterward. I found him in New York where one might think every language in the world is spoken. But he had all the interpreters puzzled.”
“And he was a Dane? Why, there is a big Danish colony in New York.”
“He was of Danish extraction; but he came from Iceland; and he came from the interior of that island where the people live about as they did when the island was first settled from Denmark, or Norway, or some Scandinavian country.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tom suddenly. “That was away back in the time of the Norsemen. Isn’t that right, father?”
“It must be,” said Mr. Swift, in agreement.
“And you mean that this Aman Dele spoke Old Norse, Mr. Damon?” asked Tom.
“And nothing else. He was just a young fellow and very bashful. He had not entered the country through the Emigration Bureau. He had plenty of money, as I say, and undoubtedly had come across on one of the big ships. Traveling first, or possibly second cabin, his food had been supplied him at the table d’hôte. He had not been obliged to talk. And he did not know a word of French or English, or modern Danish.”
“I declare!” exclaimed Mr. Swift. “But money speaks with a louder tongue than anything else! He had money. But it was probably modern Icelandic he spoke, Tom,” he added.
“He was both bashful and afraid,” said Mr. Damon in answer to Mr. Swift, eagerly reciting his story. “He had tried to talk to people until he was ashamed. And he dared not show his money for fear somebody would get it away from him. He was, as I found out afterward, walking about New York hoping to see some sign familiar to him, or to hear a word of his mother tongue spoken on the street, and growing more and more frightened.”
“Fat chance of hearing any Icelandic!” murmured the interested Tom Swift.
“I should say so! I should say so!” agreed Mr. Damon. “And so I thought after I found out what was the matter with the fellow. I saw him lurking in the mouth of an alley right beside a sausage shop. It was over on the lower East Side, and I had just come up from the docks where I had bidden good-bye to some friends who were going to Central America. Almost all the Spigotti boats sailed from the East River docks in those days.
“Well, sir, I saw this young, pale, well-dressed fellow lounging there, and just the look of him interested me. He looked so clean and foreign in his dress, and so out of place. As I watched him, the sausage man came to the door and flung a piece of sausage to a stray dog. The dog grabbed it and ran into the alley. The next moment—bless my links of frankfurters!—this strange fellow grabbed the sausage from the dog and commenced eating it while the disappointed dog ran off howling.
“Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous? I was stricken stock-still with amazement, myself. Bless my boots! I was stuck right there, staring at the young fellow gnawing on that half spoiled sausage.”
“The poor fellow,” murmured Mr. Swift.
“That’s right. It aroused more than my curiosity. I saw that although he was well dressed and all that, he was starving. I walked right across the street and into the alley and grabbed him,” said Mr. Damon.
“He was scared and tried to break away, and even offered me the sausage,” continued the narrator. “Guess he thought I was some sort of a policeman. But I was strong in those days and I hung onto him. There was a little coffee shop in sight and I made him go with me there. Just the smell of that rank coffee almost made him faint. But I made him sip it slowly, and afterward he put away a beefsteak and bread and butter and more coffee. Then his face began to light up as though there was an electric bulb turned on inside of his skull.”
“Interesting—vastly interesting,” commented Mr. Swift. “But this fortune?”
“I’m coming to it. Give me time,” said Mr. Damon. Then, grinning, he added: “Bless my pocketbook! you can’t expect to get a fortune in a minute.”
“But we hope to hear about the treasure chest pretty soon,” put in Tom.
Mr. Damon selected a paper from several he took from his wallet. He unfolded it and spread it out so that both the Swifts could read what was written on it. It seemed to be the final paragraphs of a personal letter to Mr. Damon, and Tom read aloud:
“***So, my dear Mr. Damon, it was always on our friend’s mind that you should see his country. He had seen the world and he believed nothing in it was so beautiful and good as Iceland. And Rosestone is the beauty spot of that beautiful island. You know he has written you again and again to come here. ‘Ah!’ he said to me, his other friend, ‘I will bring him at last. Those Americans are all for business—for the making of money. It costs a great deal to live in America, and my friend, Damon, may need more than he has now before he dies.’
“So, Mr. Damon, he arranged it this way: His will was made and is proved in our courts. His chest of treasure is waiting for you. But you must come in person and get it. You are to visit his grave before you can have possession of the fortune Aman Dele intended you to have. It is my duty to see that his intentions are fulfilled.
“I hope to see you within the year. I would like to get this responsibility off my mind, for I am an old man and my time may be near. Start at once for Iceland, and let me know when you expect to reach Rosestone.
“Yours in the faith,
“Erick Brodak,
“Pastor Rosestone Mission.”
