Fruit, in its season, was cried; and at night, among other employments, by which to earn an honest penny, there were the playbill sellers, and the link boys. The former were almost invariably women, who also sold oranges; and, if a purchaser could be found to go to the extent of buying six, a “Bill of the play” was given. Awful things were those playbills—none of your dainty, lace-edged, Rimmel-scented ones—but long strips of flimsy tissue paper, yet wet from the printers, smearing the hands with ink from the large capital letters employed. No time had they to dry them; there was usually a fresh play every night, and the playbills had to be fresh also. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXVII. The Postman—His dress—The Post Office—Changes of site—Sir Robert Vyner—Rates of postage and deliveries—Mail coaches—Places of starting and routes—Number of houses in London—Description of them—Their furniture. ONE PARTICULAR feature of the Streets, was, and still is, one of our most trusted servants, the POSTMAN. In those days he was a _somebody_, who held personal relations with his clients. None of your rat-tats, and “Look in the letter box”; he generally had something to collect, for there were no postage stamps in those days, and that being the fact, people very often left the postage to be collected at the other end. The officials mounted a hat with a cockade, scarlet coat (the Royal livery), blue breeches, and, of course, white stockings. They used, as in my young days, to collect the letters, nay, in many country districts they do it now. [Illustration: A POSTMAN.]