He saw some forcing their way to the exits; and as the packed throng, swaying backwards, bore him to the giddy edge of the gallery rails, he saw the whole audience rise from their seats with white upturned faces.
"The Press!" called someone.

Half a dozen, then twenty, then a hundred voices took up the cry: "The Press! The Press!" He turned.

What had become of Mr.Jope?
What, indeed?
Cutlass between teeth, Mr.Jope had heaved himself over the gallery rail, caught a pillar between his dangling feet, and slid down it to the Upper Circle; from the Upper Circle to the Dress Circle; from the Dress Circle to the Pit.

A dozen seamen hurrahed and followed him.

To the audience screaming, scattering before them, they paid no heed at all.