McGinnis went out and sat down upon a pile of ore.  It was a bright and cloudless morning, such as may be seen nowhere in the world but in Heart’s Desire.  The Patos Mountains, across the valley, seemed so close that one might lay his hand upon them.  The sun was bright and unwinking, and all the air so golden sweet that McGinnis pushed back his hat and gloried simply that he was alive.  He did not even note the cottontail that came out from behind a bush to peer at him, nor mark the sweeping shadow of a passing eagle that swung high above the little valley.  His eye now and again fell upon the abandoned mill, gaunt, idle and silent; yet he regarded it lazily, the spell of the spot and the languor of the air filling all his soul.

But at last the sun grew more ardent, and McGinnis, knowing the secret of the dry Southwest, sought shade in order that he might be cool.  He rose and strolled again into the mill, looking about him as before, idly and critically.  “Av ye was all me own, it’s quite a coffee mill I cud make of ye, me dear,” said he, familiarly.  And at this moment a thought seemed to strike him.

“It has always been me dream to be a captain of industhry,” soliloquized McGinnis.  “I’ve always longed to hear the busy hum of me own wheels, and to feel that I was the employer and not merely the employeed.”  He mused for a few moments, too lazy to think far at one flight.

“It wud be nice,” he resumed later, “to see the smoke of your own facthory ascendin’ to the sky, and to feel that yerself ’uz the whole affair, cook and captain bold, ore shoveller, head ingineer, amalgamator and main squeeze.”

“All capital,” continued McGinnis, “is too much depindent upon labor.  The only real solution—­” he paused to feel his pockets for a match—­“the only real solution is to be both capital and labor.  Then, av ye’ve anny kick, take it to yourself, and settle it fair fer both!” He paused again, and again the light of his idea showed upon his countenance.  “This,” said McGinnis, “is Accajyun!”

He wandered over to the little boiler which drove the engine, and took inventory of the pile of crooked pinon wood that lay heaped up near by.  He sounded the tank on top of the engine house, and found that it was half full.  Then, calmly and methodically, he took off his coat, folded it, and laid it across a bench.  He picked up a piece of board, whittled a little pile of shavings, thrust them into the ashy grate, and piled some wood above them.  Then he scraped a match, and turning a cock or so to satisfy himself that the boiler would not go out through the roof in case he did get up steam, sat down to await developments.  “She’ll steam for sure,” he ruminated.  “She’ll steam as much as wud do for a peanut wagon, av ye give her time.”

Before the morning was gone the little boiler began to thump and churn and threaten.  McGinnis ran the belt on to the stamp shaft.  He went up and connected the crusher and shovelled a few barrows of ore into the hopper.  Not long afterwards there was a dull and creaking rumble.  The shaft of the stamps turned half around, slipped and stopped with a rusty squeak.  Then came further creaks, groans, and rumbles.  McGinnis walked calmly from place to place, tightening, loosening, shaking, testing, shovelling, and watching.