The accounts of the thing's coming to New York are almost numberless, and it is from one of these, that of Edward Worley, that we find what is perhaps our most vivid picture of the thing. Worley's account, to which he has given the somewhat banal title of _My Experiences in the Life Horror_, not only gives us a description of the first coming of the horror at New York, but summarizes in fact the action of the thing over all the world. For as it was in New York that night, so it was in a thousand seaside cities in that same hour, and what Worley saw in its streets was seen by millions of horror-stricken men in that same night. The magnitude of the thing was greater at New York, but the horror was the same, as Worley indeed points out. This Edward Worley figures unconsciously in his own narrative as a somewhat commonplace individual, a middle-aged person, the greater part of whose days had been spent in the adding and subtracting of figures in a Broad Street broker's office. To avoid crowded subways, as he tells us, Worley had taken rooms in one of the narrow lodging-houses jammed in here and there east of the financial section, at Manhattan's lower extremity. It was this fact that conspired with circumstances to project Worley into the very heart of the terror's first coming. For, a half-hour before midnight on that fateful night of the 27th, he had decided that a short stroll through the warm spring air would be a pleasant one, and his steps had led him southward toward the Battery's little open park. It was an hour, that just before midnight, when the southern end of that great island-mass of structures that is New York lies beneath a silence and a loneliness supernatural, almost. So it seemed to Worley, at least, strolling southward in the warm spring night through the silent streets, from one pool of corner lamplight to another, between the towering, vast buildings that loomed into the darkness on either side. Those buildings, the center of unparalleled activity in the hours of day, lay as silent beneath the white spring stars as though they were the still unbroken ruins of some mighty, deserted city. Northward, from the midtown section, a glow of light against the sky told of the life that still surged through the crowded streets there, but Worley, strolling on, met none save an occasional policeman who eyed him keenly beneath the corner lights. Then within moments more puffs of fresh salt air came to his nostrils, and he was passing out between the last of the great buildings, out beneath the looming tracks of the elevated and into the silent little park.