On Tuesday they made their final dry run. Wednesday morning they arrived in Bridgewater at about half past six and parked on Hale Street, not far from a lunch stand. Silva said, “Boys, let’s go down and have something to eat because this is liable to be our last meal.” He and Doggy finished eating ahead of the others and walked up to the square opposite the bank to watch for the truck. Suddenly Silva noticed that it had slipped in from the side street and was parked in front of the bank. They returned to the car and Doggy got in, leaving Silva outside as look-out man. Guinea Oates was at the wheel. At Silva’s signal, he was to back the car into the street and block the truck. Silva called out “Let’s go” and Guinea shoved the car into Broad Street while the other two piled out. What they had not counted on was a trolley car coming down the street right behind the truck. They shouted at the men in the truck, now almost on top of them, and Doggy leveled his shotgun, but, as Silva told it: _When we said, “stick ’em up,” instead of the driver sticking up his hands, and the rest of them they kept on going, and all of a sudden shots were fired from both sides. Most of us were behind some trees or posts, a few feet from Hale Street. I seen this man that was sitting on the side seat, I don’t know who it was, but it was a big man. He got up from his seat and grabbed the driver’s wheel and while he was grabbing the driver’s wheel, the street car comes down and cuts us off from seeing the truck. All of a sudden I heard a noise. We heard some glass breaking. We couldn’t see the payroll car any more. We all got on our car and we shot straight through Hale Street into Plymouth Street.... No cars followed us._ They stopped near a cemetery to change license plates, and Doggy threw the stolen ones into a pond. Back in the North End Silva and Bruno shaved off their mustaches. “I was broke and desperate,” Silva told Callahan. “There was some Jew from New York that was hanging around Boston and I got acquainted with him. He was way worst off than I was.” The man, a down-and-outer named Jacob Luban, was full of plausible talk about easy money in New York. Calling himself Paul Martini, Silva set out with him. His easy money turned out to be nothing more than working the combinations of post-office boxes and stealing letters that might contain money. In this paltry venture Silva and Luban were joined by another floater, Adolph Witner. Hanging around New York post-office lobbies, they were soon noticed and arrested. Witner turned state’s evidence. Luban and Silva received terms in the United States penitentiary in Atlanta. Doggy Bruno and Guinea Oates vanished. Only Joe Sammarco stayed on in Boston. Three weeks after the Bridgewater failure a policeman was killed during a dance-hall brawl in City Square, Charlestown. Sammarco was convicted for this crime in 1920 and sent to Charlestown State Prison for life. There he found himself with Big Chief Mede.