My mother had a bookshelf of (what I remember to be) her old childhood books. Many of them were worn and well-read like with this one. I remember that when I started learning to read I would look at the bookshelf as a place of wonder, thinking of how many books there seemed to be and how many different stories. I would pick books at random and I believe I read and re-read different ones depending on what I wanted to read. Later I would go on to read the other books on other bookshelves like The Lord of the Rings, The Sword of Shannara and This Present Darkness but at the time the few books on that shelf seemed enough. And there were some real treasures on there like The Rebels of Journey's End and The White Mountains. Sad to think of it we had to get rid of many generations of books when we moved house and still only have kept the more valuable and more often read books. Those 100s of years old theology books have to take precedence over twenty year old dusty, worn paperbacks.
That all said while I'm in a nostalgic mood I remember that I read and re-read this story a few times. No doubt if I found it now I'd hate it or find it very average but it sits in my memory as a fun and interesting story. I doubt I'll ever read it again but you never know. Maybe one day there'll be children who ask me what I read when I was a boy and I'll bring up the classics and also the old Enid Blyton stories and the pulpy books like this one that I read and enjoyed. Those books certainly didn't hurt my cultural literacy despite what people like Hirsch might argue.