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.”