“At last, after what seemed an interminable age, we reached [Huckleberry]. We stopped under a pear tree near the stable, about forty or fifty yards from my house. It was then between nine and ten o’clock.
‘Wait here,’ I said, ‘while I go in and get you some supper, which you can eat here while I get something for myself.’
‘Oh,’ said Booth, ‘can’t I go in and get some of your hot coffee?’
It cut me to the heart when this poor creature, whose head had not been under a roof, who had not tasted warm food, felt the glow of a fire, or seen a cheerful light for nearly a week, there in the dark, wet night at my threshold, made this piteous request to be allowed to enter a human habitation. I felt a great wave of pity for him, and a lump rose in my throat as I answered, ‘My friend, it wouldn’t do. Indeed it would not be safe. There are servants in the house who would be sure to see you and then we would all be lost. Remember, this is your last chance to get away.’
To refuse that appeal, prompted by a feeling I could so well understand, was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.” – Thomas A. Jones in his book, J. Wilkes Booth