Unfinished WorkClutching his pickaxe in one hand and wiping a drop of sweat from his brow with the other, Jack Landon took a look around the dark, dank coal mine he was currently stationed at.
"Say Phil," Jack began, "how much longer until lunch? The dust flying around broke my watch again. That has to be the sixth damn watch this year."
The year was 1892, and the economy was promising to improve within the next few years. It was hard to make end's meat when the only source of income was the amount of hours you and your oldest son could put in. The times were tough; Jack and his eldest son, Leroy, had been switched between mines so frequently that they forgot to whom they were currently employed. It didn't matter, really; at the end of the week, the money didn't have any employer's name on it, just as the employer didn't know which workers were under his current fist.
A loud whistle sounded in the distance, and the workers made their way toward s