_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.