Vaughn found a loaded revolver in the hip pocket of the man with the mustache and gave it to Connolly, who kept it in his hand all the way to the Brockton central station. Officers Spear and Snow of the central station had driven down to meet the trolley.
I put Sacco and Vanzetti in the back of our light machine [Connolly continued], and Officer Snow got in the back seat with them. I took the front seat with the driver, facing Sacco and Vanzetti.... I told them when we started that the first false move I would put a bullet in them. On the way to the station Sacco reached his hand to under his overcoat and I told him to keep his hands outside of his clothes and on his lap.... I says to him, “Have you got a gun there?” He says, “No.” He says, “I ain’t got no gun.” “Well,” I says, “keep your hands outside your clothes.” We went along a little further and he done the same thing. I gets up on my knees on the front seat and I reaches over and I puts my hand on his coat but I did not see any gun. “Now,” I says, “Mister, if you put your hand in there again you are going to get into trouble.” He says, “I don’t want no trouble.” We reached the station, brought them up to the office and searched them.
The revolver taken from the mustached man was a 38-caliber Harrington & Richardson, its five chambers loaded with two Remington and three U. S. cartridges. Taken from him at the Campello station were four shotgun shells, a pocket knife, a handkerchief, twenty dollars, and several pamphlets. The smooth-faced man was searched by Officer Spear, who found a 32-caliber Colt automatic tucked in his waistband. The Colt had eight cartridges in the clip and one in the chamber. In the man’s pocket were twenty-three loose cartridges. Though all 32-caliber, the cartridges were of assorted makes—sixteen Peters, seven U. S., six Winchesters, and three Remingtons. In addition the man had in his pocket a penciled announcement in Italian that read:
Proletarians, you have fought all the wars. You have worked for all the owners. You have wandered over all the countries. Have you harvested the fruits of your labors, the price of your victories? Does the past comfort you? Does the present smile on you? Does the future promise you anything? Have you found a piece of land where you can live like a human being and die like a human being? On these questions, on this argument, and on this theme, the struggle for existence, Bartolomeo Vanzetti will speak. Hour____Day____Hall____Admission free. Freedom of discussion to all. Take the ladies with you.
Within a quarter of an hour Chief Stewart arrived at the station, heady with excitement at the springing of his trap. With him were his night patrolmen Frank LeBaron and Warren Laughton, and Simon Johnson. Johnson at once identified the prisoners as the men he had seen standing by the motorcycle. Stewart then questioned them individually. He talked to the mustached man first, taking care to repeat the cautionary formula that the latter did not have to answer questions but that anything he said might be held against him. The prisoner did not hesitate. He said his name was Bartolomeo Vanzetti, that he was an Italian, thirty-two years old and a fish peddler, and that he lived at 35 Cherry Street, Plymouth. For the last two days, he said, he had been visiting his friend, Nick Sacco, in South Stoughton. The two of them had gone to Bridgewater that evening to see Vanzetti’s friend Poppy, but it was so late by the time they arrived that they decided Poppy had probably gone to bed and they might as well go home. They were on their way back to South Stoughton when the police picked them up. As for Poppy, that was only the man’s nickname. Vanzetti did not know his real name or even his address in Bridgewater, but he was a big man who usually wore a blue shirt. They had worked together in the Plymouth Cordage plant.
Vanzetti denied knowing anyone named Boda or Coacci. He said he had never before been in West Bridgewater. He had walked some distance before he had taken the trolley, but he had seen no motorcycle all evening. Stewart suddenly asked Vanzetti if he was an anarchist, if he approved of the government. All Vanzetti would admit was that he was a little different and that he liked things different. As to why he was carrying a revolver, he said that he was in business and needed it for protection. He had no permit.
Stewart’s questioning of the second man followed the same line. The suspect said his name was Nicola Sacco, that he was married, lived in South Stoughton, and had been in America eleven years. For the last two years he had worked at the Three-K factory in Stoughton. He had once looked for a job in Bridgewater, but he had never been in West Bridgewater until tonight. He did not know any Boda or Coacci. He had not seen a motorcycle. He was not an anarchist or Communist. As for the automatic in his waistband, he carried it because there were a lot of bad men about. He had bought it a long time ago at some shop near Hanover Street in Boston. The cartridges were from a box he had bought and they just happened to be in his pocket. He had planned to shoot them off in the woods with his friends.
Stewart’s questioning of both men lasted about ten minutes. They were then locked up.
Neither Sacco nor Vanzetti had been behind bars before. Now, in adjoining cells under the shadowless glare of the overhead light, with a wooden shelf to sleep on and a seatless toilet in the corner, they sensed the isolating fear of arbitrary impersonal force. To the policemen going on and off duty they were curiosities and as such subject to a certain amount of crude horseplay. When the two men requested blankets the reply was that they would find it warm enough when they were lined up in the hall for a little live target practice, and one patrolman showed Vanzetti a cartridge which he then slipped into the barrel of his revolver, cocking it and pointing between the bars. When Vanzetti did not move, the other spat on the floor contemptuously and turned away.