He's an old cobbler  with a shop in the Marais, a historic area in Paris. When I took him my shoes, he at first told me, "I haven't time. Take them to the other fellow on the main street. He'll fix them for you right away." But I had my eyes on his shop for a long time. Just looking at his bench loaded with tools and pieces of leather, I knew he was a skilled craftsman . "No." I replied, "The other fellow can't do it well." "The other fellow" was one of those shopkeepers who fix shoes and make keys -- without knowing much about mending shoes or making keys. They work carelessly, and when they have finished sewing back a sandal strap , you might as well just throw away the pair. My man saw I wouldn't give in, and he smiled. He wiped hands on his blue apron , looked at my shoes, had me write my name on one shoe with a piece of chalk and said, "Come back in a week." I was about to leave when he took a pair of soft leather boots off a shelf. "See what I can do?" he said with pride. "Only three of us in Paris can do this kind of work." When I got back out into the street, the world seemed brand-new to me. He was something out of an ancient legend, this old craftsman with his way of speaking familiarly, his very strange dusty felt hat, his funny accent and his pride in his craft. These are times when nothing is important but the bottom line, when you can do things any old way as long as it "pays", when, in short, people look on work as a path to ever-increasing consumption rather than a way to realize their abilities. In such a period it is a rare comfort to find a cobbler who gets his greatest satisfaction from pride in a job well done. This story wants to tell us that   _  .
craftsmen make a lot of money whatever you do, do it well craftsmen need self-respect people are born equal